


Awake My Soul

by sirenlungs



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-12
Updated: 2016-07-08
Packaged: 2018-04-04 01:17:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 100,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4121026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirenlungs/pseuds/sirenlungs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the death of her beloved soldier and true love, Killian Jones, in WWI, Emma Swan's great-great aunt made sure that she and her beloved would be reunited again. Now, almost a century later, Emma Swan is a college senior in New Orleans and trapped between a debate between fate and free will. A story of reincarnation and the power of true love as it transcends time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Prologue

October 15, 1918

My dearest,I long for the past like you have no idea. The memories of those days that I spent with you down by the river were probably the happiest memories I have to offer. I miss everything about you, my love. I remember the way the sun shone in your eyes and your laughter filling up the room. Your beauty and your wit were unparalleled to any other girl in the whole of Dixie. I do not regret our time together, however short it was. However, I feel like I cannot keep you waiting with hope and unease forever. It is customary here in the front to not think about the future much, however, I always think of you. If something were to happen to me, my darling beautiful girl, I want you to know that my love for you is everlasting. That with a love as strong as ours, it is impossible that even something as dreadful as death will be able to diminish it. If something were to happen to me, my sweet, know that I want you to live your life as happy as you can. I want you to live for the both of us because in the end we will be together, of that I am sure. Live and love, my darling, for in the end I know we shall be reunited at last.

Yours forever,

K.J.


	2. Chapter One

A/N: to try to accommodate the characters to what I had previously written I had to take some liberties with some of the characters and stuff, I hope you don't mind! I'll work on chapter 2 this weekend-when i'm not binge watching OITNB-and I'll have that up sometime this week! As always your reviews mean the world to me!  
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Chapter One

Her parents named her Emmeline Marie Swan to take after her great-great aunt or something of the like. Naturally, she made everyone call her Emma or Em. She was twenty-two years old, originally from a haughty and pristine neighborhood in Long Island and this was her final year of college. She should get a degree in Sociology with a minor in History this upcoming May. But hey, one never knows what can happen in a year.

It is a hot and humid August day in the city of New Orleans, Louisiana. It has just rained so irrationally the sun is already out, but that is New Orleans's weather for you. It is as unpredictable and crazy as the people who live there.

Emma absolutely adores it.

She came to New Orleans four years ago, seeking an escape from her life in Long Island. New Orleans was a wild and crazy city, its culture and history vast and exciting. It was so different from her perfectly boring life at home. Not that she would call New York, home. You see, Emma had spent most of her life in prep schools and boarding schools across the East coast. All of them were all-girls, which just means that, when she was younger, Emma was specially boy crazy and her virginity is long gone, she had been smoking cigarettes (mostly, but ever since moving to New Orleans she did not shy away from the occasional joint) since the age of fourteen –she quit cigarettes about a year ago—and the list just goes on and on. Long story short, Emma had been "living on the edge" since she was twelve, but what else could you expect from a preteen with absentee parents? She has had roommates from Hong Kong, Sweden, and France, the occasional American thrown in the mix, but high school was mostly a United Nations experience for her.

Her actual home, however, the one she was raised in—or rather the one her Puerto Rican housemaid raised her in—was more like solitary confinement. Her dad was an internist and head of his entire medical department. He was on call nearly twenty four hours a day and spent most of the time in the family's apartment in Manhattan, which is just Emma's way of saying he was never around. Her mother was a lovely ex-debutante who was constantly at a loss on what to do with a daughter that preferred to dress up as Indiana Jones in Raiders of the Lost Ark and read thick musty books, rather than playing dress-up in princess-like ball gowns. The house itself was depressing to say the least, Emma's lack of siblings made the extra rooms seem unnecessary, the furnishings were not meant for a kid to touch, and even looking the Persian rugs was altogether unheard of. But that is what you get when your house is a massive inherited estate that dates back to the early 1900s.

To summarize her lot of first world problems, Emma wanted a change from stuck-up debutantes her mother coerced her into spending her afternoons with, angry New Yorkers, and strict education. She wanted a place where she could break free, that was still wild and exciting as New York but vastly different from it. New Orleans seemed like a healthy alternative, it was love at first sight when Emma visited her future Uptown campus, and though her parents would've preferred an Ivy League school a couple of hours away, she never applied to one.

Emma's freshman year here, however, is somewhat of a blur. Her weekends started on Tuesdays, the bars are eighteen and up and close later than in New York, coincidentally Tuesday was fifty cent night. On Wednesday, the girls and she would go out to Ladies' Night, all you can drink for two dollars at the door and one didn't even need a fake ID, even though Emma had one. Thursday was Latin Night, where the Latino community would make your dance moves feel incompetent, but it didn't matter because you'd be your stereotypical "white-girl wasted" self and most of them wouldn't mind grinding with a gringa. On Fridays she'd go down to Bourbon and Frenchmen Street both the birthplaces of debauchery, music, art, and—most importantly—a good time. During that first year Emma did everything from almost killing her liver, to waking up in random frat boy beds, and dropping acid during Mardi Gras. But, she's settled down since then, and though she's not particularly proud of her actions back then, Emma honestly think everyone's first year of college is all sorts of crazy. Why should hers be an exception?

-/-

Three classes later and Emma's first day of senior year is over. She's back at the apartment she shares with my best friend Ruby, a leggy brunette who happens to be half Italian. They were suitemates in freshman year, then roommates sophomore year. Ever since then they've been inseparable. The apartment they share is four blocks away from campus and it's a small two-bedroom lot, but it fits them comfortably and the family room is big enough to accommodate whoever wants to stay over during Mardi Gras. Which is almost always Ruby's brother, whom Emma has hooked up with in the past. Again, she was quite loose during freshman year.

Ruby is in her room, sprawled on her bed clothed only in her underwear, one of those cheap tiny battery operated fans in her hand.

"I'm home." Emma says smirking at her.

"It's so hot." She replies.

"How was your chem lab this morning?"

"Horrible, five of us showed up and the professor didn't even let us out early. How about you? How was your research thing?" She replies.

"Didn't really do much." Emma turns around and heads to our kitchen to grab some lunch. "Hey, do you want anything from the fridge?" She ask loudly.

"To be honest, I don't really feel like moving." She answers back. Yet despite what she just said, Emma suddenly hears bed sheets rustling and a shuffle of feet pounding lightly on the floor. In a matter of seconds Ruby is in front of her.

"I thought you didn't feel like moving."

"Guess what I saw today." She says excitedly, the last time Emma saw her this excited was when the president of one of the fraternities asked her to their formal and when they heard rumors of Brad Pitt being the king of Bacchus last year. He was.

"I hate guessing games." Emma replies dryly, focused on spreading an even layer of peanut butter on a slice of bread.

"Just guess!"

"Was it that famous quarterback running in Audubon Park?"

"No. But it was a really hot guy."

"Ruby, he's probably gay, a freshman, or even worse a stinky little hipster." I am now distributing an even layer of grape jelly on the other slice of bread. I am very excited for this sandwich.

"No, he's not. I already Facebook stalked him." Oy vey.

"Ruby, how do you even know his name?" Emma asks exasperatedly. She decided to give up men this year, at least stupid college guys anyways, in order to focus on raising her GPA and getting into the Tulane School of Social Work so she can obtain a master's in social work.

"That's the best part! He came into the tutoring center today! He's going to work there! You know who else works there? I do. It's fate."

Emma scoffs.

"Okay, just because you swore off getting laid until further notice, doesn't mean I did. He's hot, I'm amazing. It's meant to be."

"Okay, Ruby. Whatever you say." Emma laughs and starts walking back to her room where her unmade bed and the cheap battery operated fan awaited her and her imminent naptime.

And as the heat engulfs Emma's tiny room, she passes out almost immediately.

She regains consciousness in a large room, a room she'd been in before and recognized as parlor, but in a house she can swear she has never set foot in. The windows were open and a warm summer breeze enters through them. The room is still and there is no one else with her. The only sounds are those of an electric fan whirring from the ceiling, a radio emitting a song she recognizes but is clearly almost a century old, and her own sobs. It takes her forever to realize that she's sitting in a white wicker chaise, clutching a letter and sobbing her eyes out. While she cries, tears drop on the paper rapidly, her hands are shaking, and her eyesight is blurry but she can make out that it isn't a letter but rather a telegram. She now hears herself talking or rather repeating the same word over and over.

"No, no, no."

She's rocking forwards and back in her seat.

"No, no, no."

Her chest is heavy, she can't breathe. A voice from behind her asks her what the telegram says. She turns around but the figure doesn't have a face. That doesn't stop her from answering it.

"We're sorry to inform you that the Sgt. K. Jones has been classified as missing in action."

The figure—whom she's determined is a woman—tells her to keep her hopes up, that whoever this man is couldn't possibly be dead. He's just missing she says. She keeps reading, he's presumably killed in action. She should expect a follow up letter and the worst. The chances of him being found are slim, she shouldn't get her hopes up. He is probably dead. She feels her heart being torn apart, her cries echoing across the room. Cries of heartbreak and despair, cries of hopelessness.

The room fades to black.

"No! Goddamnit!" Ruby's voice exclaims frustrated from her room. Emma awakes with a start and covered in sweat. Her chest is heaving, she's out of breath. She brings a hand to her head as if that's going to soothe the headache that came from whatever weird dream she just had. Emma closes her eyes and wipes her cheeks from tears she had shed while sleeping. The sun is still shining through her windows, it's setting though. It must be about five in the afternoon. Sitting upright and swinging her legs to the side of the bed, Emma stands up and stretches. That was a really weird dream.

"What happened, Ruby?" Emma asks loudly.

"He has a girlfriend!" Ruby replies, her voice clearly indicating frustration.

"Who has a girlfriend?" Emma studies her reflection in the mirror while awaiting Ruby's response. Her face is milky white, dark circles rather prominent on her now pallid complexion.

"The hot guy I saw today! He has a stupid girlfriend! I'm so stalking her." Determination is her strong suit.

Emma slips on a large tshirt, ex-boyfriend couture, and leaves her room.

"I'm sorry, Bee." she tells Ruby sincerely as she enters her friend's room.

"She's not even that pretty. Whatever, I'm over it." She isn't.

Emma looks at her and smiles knowingly.

"I'm fine! I only met the guy for five minutes. Did I feel a connection? Of course. But, you know, some things just aren't meant to be, it's not like my heart is shattered into a million pieces or anything." Ruby tells Emma defiantly, her nose turned up to the side and her will unrelenting.

"You sure you're okay?" Emma asks seriously.

"Never been better. However, I was wondering if you would like to accompany me in drunken endeavors tonight." She adds with a big smile.

"Yeah, that sounds good. A bunch of people are going to The Uptown tonight."

"Isn't that too classy? It's too classy. I want to get freshman wasted." She adds with a pout.

"Bee, our livers can't afford to get freshman wasted anymore."

She scoffs.

"Plus, we can find you a hotter, older, probably working man tonight! That's got to be better than all of the douchebags we go to school with. Come on, he was probably just another one of them. He's nothing special."

"Fine, but no one over thirty-five."

-/-

Around ten they leave. It took them forever to find decent attire but they finally settled in some cute dresses. After all, the bar at The Uptown Hotel is one of the classier establishments the undergrads can attend. You can't just show up in a micro mini, a plunging neckline, and hooker heels. Ruby was wearing a purple dress with sheer flowing fabric around the skirt and a lace bodice. She was wearing her new Michael Kors cork wedges, dangly gold earrings, and about a hundred bangles. Emma was wearing a black strapless dress, topped with a leather jacket. She finished the look with her trusty royal blue Steve Madden pumps and simple jewelry. Nothing too extravagant but still decent enough to be considered classy with a bit of an edge.

When they arrive at the hotel, most of their friends are already waiting at the bar. Girls were wearing sophisticated dresses and guys were dressed smartly for the occasion. It's a different crowd here, and Emma likes it. Most of the clientele are either hotel guests or seniors and juniors from the nearby campuses, the occasional freshman or sophomore sneak in but they keep their composure if they don't want their fake IDs to be questioned.

"Em! Ruby! Over here!" As they step through the threshold to they lounge, their friends Mary Margaret and Leo immediately beckon the girls. Mary is a graphic design major who wears cat-eye glasses and the latest fashion trends and Leo is a sociology major just like Emma. They met in freshman year when they bonded over some actor whose name escapes her now, they both wanted to have his adopted babies.

"Leo! Mags! So good to see you! How's the selection looking?" Ruby says rapidly all in one breath as she sits down and flashes the bartender a flirty smile.

"Pretty slim, looks like there won't be much of a show tonight." Mags replies before eating the olive from her martini. Leo nods wholeheartedly. They are obviously talking about men. Because what else do single people who haven't had a decent relationship in a sufficient amount of time talk about?

"Don't you roll your eyes at us, Emmeline." Leo starts, "Just because you've decided to be celibate this year doesn't mean we have."

"Right?!" Ruby exclaims.

"I haven't decided to be celibate, Leonard. I'm just not looking for another fling with a frat boy who wears Sperry's and pastel Polo's and doesn't give a shit about me. I'm done with college guys, that's all."

Leo nods, understanding her point and then turns around to attempt to catch the bartender's attention for another whiskey sour.

The conversation stops momentarily as both Mags and Ruby are in their own conversation, and Leo is looking the other way. This gives Emma time to look across the room and spot some sorority girls she is friends with and have greeted, appreciate the dim lighting and the old-fashioned glamour of the hotel bar, and relish in the jazz piano that was resonating throughout the whole establishment.

"So, Em." Leo starts eyeing me seriously, "I take it that since you're done with college boys you'll have no problem considering an older man?"

"If I like him, why not?" Emma humors him.

"A med-school student perhaps? Very smart, responsible, and drop dead gorgeous, if I may say so myself?" Oh, no. Emma just knows where this is going.

"Leo, you better not be planning on setting me up with anyone." She answers sternly.

"Actually, I was." he replies not skipping a beat. "He's absolutely perfect for you, I'm sure."

"No."

"Come on, Em. You'll like him!" He pleads.

"No."

"But I've already named your children! Emmeline Marie, you can't do this to me."

"I can and I will. Also, you know I have no intention of having children and stop calling me by my full name, you know very well that I hate it."

"Well that's too bad that you won't even meet with him, because I told him to meet us here. I've told him nothing but wonders about you and he seems interested, but I guess Ruby won't mind taking him." Ruby finally swivels around in her chair, taking a break from flirting with the bartender, looking outraged.

"Hey! I can find my own man, thank you very much." She says haughtily. Ruby has never been fond of receiving someone's sloppy seconds. If she finds the guy first, then he's hers, and that's that.

"Like the bartender? Cute Ruby, but so sophomore year." Leo replies.

"Whatever, at least I'm getting free drinks." She sticks her tongue out and gives her back to us.

"Leo, I really don't want to dive into a blind date right after classes start." Emma tells him, desperately trying to make him understand that she just wants to focus in her own problems this year.

"Oh, relax. Who's to say you'll hit it off? Personally I think you will, but you might not. You don't have to talk to him. He's just all alone in this city, you know? He just moved here, doesn't really have any friends. You don't have to be cordial or anything."

Sometimes, Emma really hates Leo.

"Fine I'l-"

"Oh, speak of the devil! He just got here." And at once, Leo's skinny self disappears from her view to go find a guy Emma cannot identify through the massive amount of people.

Emma turns around and tries to enter Mags and Ruby's conversation, but she just stares down at her vodka tonic quietly, full of self doubt. She hates meeting strangers, she really does. She isn't exactly an extrovert when it comes to meeting someone for the first time. Talking to men has never been her strong-suit, luckily she guesses for her, Emma has always been able to rely on her apparent good looks to make a good first impression.

Leo comes back closely followed by a smartly dressed man in dark blue jeans and a white button down shirt. And so Emma meets Graham Humbert. In all honesty Emma can say that she was immediately taken aback by his good looks. If the fact that he towered over her five foot four inch stature with what she can only guess as to somewhere nearing six feet, that his eyes from what she could tell were dark green and contrasted perfectly with his cropped short wavy light brown hair and matching scruff didn't kill her, his Irish accent surely did. He was twenty-five years old, a med-student in the neighboring Tulane campus a few blocks away, and from Belfast in Ireland.

Ruby immediately forgot about the bartender and focused all attention on him, but it seemed that Graham didn't have eyes for a leggy, curvy, brunette Italian. But for Emma, the average height, skinny blonde, who basically hadn't said a word since he had arrived. He'd smile at Emma warmly, enticingly, and she'd blush while drinking out of her glass. She had no idea what was wrong with her. Normally Emma talks, she makes an effort to be witty and chatty, but tonight to say that she was tongue-tied was an understatement.

After all the introductions and idle chit chat has ended, things pretty much go back to normal. Emma is still not saying much, and she really doesn't know what to say. Victor—one of those guys you hook up with once and they always seem to come back into your life sporadically—has whisked off Ruby to the makeshift dance floor. Emma secretly thinks Ruby actually likes him, but she just doesn't want to admit it.

Graham, then, takes to sit in her spot in her absence.

When it comes to him, Emma is apparently still mute.

"Are you normally this quiet?" Good God, that accent is divine.

Emma looks at him and smirks, some of her composure returning to her.

"I'm hardly ever quiet." Emma tells him.

"Emmeline, right?" He asks, his eyes concentrated on mine.

"Call me Emma." She cringes at the sound of her full name, even if it is being uttered by such a wonderful voice.

"You don't like your full name, I take it." He smiles at her. Emma notices that he has dimples, not the deep-set kind, but longer shallow ones that are barely noticeable. She also notices that the skin around his eyes crinkle when he smiles, he has a gorgeous smile.

"Gee, was my evident cringing at the mere mention of it any indication? You're going to think I'm vapid, but it's such an old lady's name. I hate it."

"I think it's pretty, there's class to it. And hey, at least kids didn't completely disregard your last name when you were growing up and took to call you Graham Cracker instead." He eyes her seriously. Giving Emma a look that obviously tells her that she is better off with her name than he is with his.

Emma laughs.

"That's hardly creative, did they not have any other pastries they could name you after?" He smiles ruefully. "Can I call you Graham Biscuit?" Graham shakes his head at her, smiling softly at her lame attempt at conversation.

"You've got a terrible sense of humor, did you know?"

"Personally, I think I'm hilarious." Emma replies haughtily, feigning an insulted look. He laughs and takes the beer bottle that has been nursing in his hands to his lips and drinks. He sets it down on the counter, chuckles and looks back at her.

"You know your British slang pretty well. Surprising, for an uncultured American." He tells her, throwing in a wink for good measure.

"You are such a gentleman, thank you. Are you the type of guy that insults a girl first and then has his way with them? And I was quite the Anglophile growing up, blame Harry Potter and Beatlemania for all I care."

He smiles even wider.

"The insult-and-take-advantage technique works most of the time though. You wouldn't believe how many girls I've gotten like that."

"Charming."

"But did my ears deceive me or did you acknowledge some attraction towards me?" His eyes are sparkling devilishly, looking straight into hers.

Emma is taken aback by how forward he was, certainly. But, it was a new, refreshing kind of forward, obviously European.

She liked it.

"Me? Attracted to you? Never." He raises his eyebrows.

"That's a shame, because I'm attracted to you." He turns back towards the bar and signals for another beer. And for some inane reason Emma is left mute again.

What do they teach boys in Ireland?

-/-

Some time later they leave the hotel and decide to walk to one of the bars around Maple Street. Ruby keeps trying to hold a conversation with Graham, but to no avail. He keeps glancing to the back, where Emma is lagging behind. She really doesn't know why she's being so different tonight. Maybe it's because he's drop dead gorgeous, smart, witty, and charming. Or maybe it's because she's never really given having a functional relationship a chance.

Not that she's thinking about dating him.

Or that her stomach squirms in delight every time he glances back at her.

Leo then turns and walks towards her, his grin couldn't be wider or more knowing. His shoulder bumps with hers. He simply mutters an "I told you so" and leaves to walk beside Mags who's a couple of steps in front of her.

Emma is slightly annoyed, though. The moment when she decides to not care about guys or all the relationship drama is when, out of nowhere, some fantastic person shows up. But what bothers her more isn't that he's amazing and he just came into her life, but that there's a possibility of this turning into something other than what she's used to. If you knew the real her, which obviously many people don't, you'd know that she's not the type of girl she portrays herself to be. In all reality, she's not loud and extroverted and she definitely doesn't feel like the badass everyone makes her out to be. On the inside, she's a girl who's been hurt since infancy, never knowing what real love is. She's never believed in it. Her parents' marriage was more of a convenient social sham than anything else, half of her friends' parents are divorced, and the others have been unhappily married for years now. Emma doesn't know real love. She was raised alongside her cousins, who were all male as she am the only female to be born in the Swan family for at least two generations. Socializing with teenage boys surely didn't teach her about functional relationships and she grew up thinking that love was disposable, that fairytales were just stories. She's never known real love, not even from her own mother. So it is only fitting, that she's never been in an actual relationship. Hook-ups she has had plenty, but never a functional relationship.

In all honesty, she's scared of having one.

They are nearing the cross-street between St. Charles and the street her apartment is located. Suddenly, Emma doesn't have any intention of going to a bar on Maple. She just wants to be home.

"Emma, are you alright?" Graham's voice snaps her out of her depressive reverie. She hadn't even noticed that she had stop walking. Ruby, Mags, and Leo were a block and a half in front of her now.

"I'm fine." Emma gives him a small smile.

"You aren't." he replies seriously.

"I am, really. I just don't feel like going bar-hopping tonight, that's all." It isn't all, but she just met him and he doesn't need to know about her problems.

His face falls a bit.

"I think I'm just gonna head home, can you let them know? Just tell them I wasn't feeling well." Emma says.

"I'll walk you." He offers. Emma tells him that there's no need for it, that it's his first night here and that her home wasn't that far.

He insists and Emma can't help but comply.

They walk in silence for the longest time. It feels comfortable, though. There was some sort of electric charge between them, that much was undeniable, but neither of them did anything about it.

"You know, Leo told me you were pretty, but he didn't really do you justice. I find you absolutely gorgeous." He says after a while, slowly and tentatively.

Ladies and gentlemen, Emma Swan has just died.

"Thank you." Emma replies awkwardly.

They were nearing her apartment now and she's fighting the urge of bringing him upstairs with her. However, that's what old Em would do, not something mature Em would do.

They walk in silence again until they near the door. Emma opens it and steps inside, she tells him that he can come inside if he wants but he stays in the doorstep saying that he promised Leo he'd go back after he dropped her off.

He says goodbye and walks down the stairs of the small doorstep. Immediately after Emma closes the door there's a knock on it.

"Do you need anything?" She asks him as she open the door.

"No, not really. I just came back because I've been meaning to ask you something ever since we left the hotel." He's completely lost the cool he's had all night. Emma can tell he's kind of nervous.

"Okay. Shoot." She tells him encouragingly.

"Right, well. I'll understand completely if you tell me to bugger off because you just met me and for all you know I could be a murderous lunatic or something but-"

"That's great, considering I let you walk me to my house at two in the morning, just us two. I love to know that you're a murderous lunatic." Emma cuts him off, jokingly.

"I'm not." He smiles.

"Great, then continue." She grins back.

"I'd really like to see more of you." He says.

"Okay..."

"Because I'm extremely attracted to you and I'd love to get to know you better." He continues.

"Is this you asking me out?" Emma asks him. Internally, she's doing a happy dance.

"Yes. But I feel like I should be forward about this, as a med student I'll have a crap schedule."

"That's totally fine. We'll work something out." Emma says brightly, unable to stop a grin from forming at her lips.

"So, you'll do it? Go out with me, I mean?"

"Yeah, I think I will."

An enormous grin forms on his face. Before leaving he tells her he'll get her number from Leo and will text her. Emma closes the door again and as she starts taking everything off, she says to herself.

"So much for taking a hiatus from men, Emmeline."  
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A/N: Also, this IS a CS story. but mostly a triangle love story of sorts.


	3. Chapter Two

A/N- Thank you so much for the feedback I received! To clear some things up 1) yes, there is a david. i am fully aware that there is no mary margaret without david. and 2) Leo was a character that was in the original story--before this was ever captain swan or I was watching OUAT--When I was adapting it I thought about making him Leroy/Grumpy but I didn't think that fit with the feel of Leo's character so, Leo is just Leo. 3) MM will not be hooking up with Leo because Leo would much rather hook up with David instead, if that clears anything up. On a personal note, I spent my undergrad in New Orleans and I miss it every day, I hope I get to bring a little bit of NOLA to you through my love letter to it in this fic. Enjoy!  
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Chapter Two

 

Laughter is all around her, distorted, almost echoing across a field. It’s a sugar cane field and she finds herself running through it, laughing. The sun is setting in the west, it hits her face full on and it blinds her while she runs. She doesn’t seem to care though, she is happy. Her white dress flows with the spring breeze, the hem dragging across the dirt. While her legs carry her across the field, zig zagging through the tall canes, her heart races a mile a minute. She’s surrounded by a sea of green, engulfed by the thudding her feet make as they rhythmically hit the ground, sounds of her shallow breaths, the laughter that escapes from her lips.   
Suddenly the sugar canes open up, the length of the field coming to an end, and she sees the river. She sees the small river stream that leads to the Mississippi, its water gleaming in the sunset. She has an undeniable feeling of accomplishment, the pride that comes with winning and proving something wrong. She can almost reach the stream, which she’s come to recognize as some sort of finish line. She’s almost at the edge of the sugar cane field when she’s intercepted. When a body much larger and stronger than hers tackles her from the side, hugging her fiercely so she doesn’t fall.   
“I’ve got you.” the voice murmurs against her ear. It brings shivers down her spine, even though it has been the hottest spring day by far. Her stomach flips and knots together as whoever is holding her kisses her on the cheek and turns her around.   
And she sees him. Her mouth stretches into a huge grin, as she takes in every feature of his. She took in how he towered over her and how his dark hair moved slightly due to the wind, how his skin was tanned from working in an English warship, but most of all she took in his eyes. Those clear blue eyes of his that looked at her intensely, filled with candor with his feelings towards her.   
“You big cheat!” she hears herself squeal, turning away from him and trying to keep running towards the stream.  
“Am not! You’re just a sore loser, always have been!” He laughs and hugs her from behind again.  
“It’s not fair! You have longer legs and you’re wearing trousers!”   
She sits down on the grass and takes off her shoes, in a huff. She stares at his bemused grin with a raised eyebrow.   
“You’re angry with me.” He states sitting down next to her, scoffing while doing so.  
He smiles to himself, though, as he tucks a strand of blonde hair behind her ear.  
And she knows what he’s thinking.   
“When have we ever been on good terms, Killian?” she asks, a smile breaking through her lips.  
“Well, this would be the first time in years, love.” It sounds so strange for him to use pet names, but it feels right. She grins at him and kisses him softly on the lips, pulling away quickly just in case anyone spots them and decides to tell her mother how unladylike she is acting. All alone with her sweetheart, why it is positively unheard of.  
“I love you.” She tells him. He inhales deeply and his chest swells up.   
“Dear God, how did I ever get so lucky?” He grins. She tells him that she doesn’t know and they just lay there for the longest time. Lying face-up on the ground, their feet dipped in the stream, listening to each other’s stable breathing and the rustle of the wind against the tall grass.  
And just as she’s about to doze off, he speaks up.  
“Darling, I have to tell you something.” His voice is serious, causing an ounce of fear to trickle down her spine.  
“What is it?”  
“We received commands last week.” She can’t even begin to process what he’s going on about because he starts talking again. “I’ve been called to duty.” He continues.  
“What?” she quickly sits upright again, and looks down at him. Her green eyes lock with his blue. His gaze is hard, serious, and determined.  
“There’s a war going on, if you hadn’t noticed. I’ve been called up to join the British Navy on the North Sea blockade, I leave Sunday night.”  
“I know there’s a war going on!” she replies angrily. “I’m just surprised that’s all. I just didn’t think that you-”  
“That I wouldn’t want to go? It’s my duty. I have to go, and I’m damn proud I’ve been called!”   
She starts lacing her boots. Trying to keep tears from falling. What if he doesn’t make it? She would die.  
“You shouldn’t have to go. Nobody should have to go. This wasn’t our war in the first place!” She starts getting up, ready to leave. This news is too much for her, her chest is constricted and she can barely breathe. She needs to leave.  
“It is our war, ever since the Germans sunk those ships!” he replies angrily, standing up along with her. She starts walking away, she cannot entertain this conversation at present.   
She runs again, the green of the sugar canes engulfing her vision once more. She knows he’s following her and that there is no use outrunning his long legs but she try with all her might. She does not know what was truly going through her mind, but she thought that maybe if she ran fast enough and far enough, the idea of her beloved going off to war in four days would stay by the Mississippi.   
“Emmeline I have a duty to my country!” he shouts behind her, close enough to extend his long arm and yank her back towards him. Oh, how she hated this lanky boy!   
“Darling, look at me.” he tries to raise her head to face him with his knuckle, but she turns away from him. When she finally does, she finds it hard to meet his gaze.  
“Why did you not tell me before?” she asks quietly.  
He stays quiet, not really knowing what to say. He searches her face for a minute and tells her that he did not want her to be upset about it.   
“Well that did not work very well, did it? I’m going home, Kil.” she turns away from him again and keeps walking towards the imposing white house in the far off distance.  
“Emmeline, please try to understand! I have a duty. There is no running away from this!” he shouts after her. 

Emma wakes up with a start, completely drenched in sweat and vaguely remembering hearing herself weeping out loud. She looks at the clock and sees that it is only 5:36 in the morning and she has at least three more hours of sleep ahead of her. She attempts going back to bed but it is no use. Even after checking the plethora of social media that is in excess on her smartphone, she still can’t fall back asleep. Emma knows that the reason behind this is because the dream was so vivid, more so than the rest she’s ever had. Even if she can’t remember the details of it right now, like one often does in vivid dreams, she stills feel the heavy burden of what she felt in the dream itself, a mixture of heartbreak and immense hopelessness. A feeling that she had lost something so soon after acquiring it so suddenly, with little hope of getting it back.  
The muted blue light seeping in through her blinds makes it clear that a new day is dawning, and because there’s no use for her to attempt to fall back asleep she decides to get out of bed and start her day, even if it was much earlier than she anticipated. Graham had texted her the night before, told her how much he enjoyed meeting her and that he could hardly wait to see her again. Emma smiles despite herself, something about meeting Graham seemed welcome and perhaps even positive. Suppressing the butterflies she felt fluttering in her stomach as she thought of him, Emma gets dressed and laces up her sneakers, opting to schedule in a morning jog before she has to get ready for her second day of class. The room is still slightly foggy around her and the brightness that she encounters when she turned on the light to the bathroom was a shock she was still getting used to. Taking her keys from one of the hooks next to the front door, she makes her way out of the apartment. Stretching her arms around her, smiling softly at the welcome ease of the tension in her tight muscles, she prepares herself for this brand new day, attempting to bury the retroactive emotional drainage that her dream produced from her in the back of her mind.  
Plugging her headphones into her phone and securing the ear buds inside of her ears, her feet propel her forward—the steady rhythm of her feet matching that of the music she was listening to. Small flickers of gold were piercing the muted blue hue in the sky, the day lightening up methodically as she made her way out of her home street of Arabella and into St. Charles Avenue to make her way towards Audubon Park. The thing about going for a jog in New Orleans was that you definitely had to be aware of where or what you were stepping on. The old trees that lined St. Charles Avenue were probably as old as the ancient and imposing houses that had stood on either side of the streetcar line for decades, and their roots had made sure that the sidewalks did not disrupt their growth. When you learn to maneuver these streets in a drunken stupor, it’s not a huge deal but in the sober beginning of the new day, it’s helpful to be mindful of the monumental cracks and unexpected rises of chunks of sidewalk lest one decides to fall face down first thing in the morning.   
It takes her about ten minutes to jog from her apartment to the entrance to Audubon Park. She stops at the intersection, her chest rising quickly as a response to her cardiovascular activity, sweat beads gathering around her forehead and a glowing sheen starting to cover her summer sun-kissed skin. The sun is fully out now, the heat bearing down on her skin, its presence fully palpable as she waits for the streetcar to pass in front of her so she can cross and get into the park. Her feet guide her automatically across the avenue, taking a right as she enters the park and following the path that loops around the park. The park is around two miles in length and Emma usually likes to run it twice before she makes her way back to her apartment. She’s greeted by a number of early risers from every age and station. Her favorite has to be the opportunity to see so many different breeds of dogs happily jogging alongside their family. She runs along the length of the jogging path twice, her mind not really focusing on anything, just on perceiving what she sees as she runs: moms pushing carriages, older women getting her power-walks in, people actually making use of the workout equipment alongside the path, ducks, geese, and the solitary mute swan that makes the pond its home.   
She slows her jog down to a walk as she finishes, deciding to turn back and walk towards her apartment through the parallel Magazine Street instead of back from where she came from through St. Charles. Emma stops and resolves to lean against a tree, almost as a ritual, in a secluded spot that overlooks the artificial pond. The hum of the cicadas and the water sloshing from the nearby fountain in the middle of the pond give her nice soothing background music as she stretches her legs out, relieving the tension from her body after her workout. Her phone rings beside her and she doesn’t even need to look at the caller id to know who is calling.   
“Hellooo, David.” She greets her cousin, her voice singing his name. Four years older than her, David is the only one of her cousins that she maintained a close relationship with. On her mother’s side, he’s her uncle’s youngest son and closest to hers in age and naturally acts more like an older brother than anything else. When she arrived in New Orleans four years ago, David had just finished his senior year of college and was going on to his first year of law school. He now works for the Public Defender’s office in City Hall, his plight for social justice angering his parents as much as my determination to be a social worker angers mine.  
“How did you know it was me?” David asks, his soothing voice incredibly welcoming. Emma can almost hear the smile on his face, his grin stretching out in order to make the scar on his chin more prominent.  
“Besides the fact that every phone has caller id now, you’re the only one who actually calls me, everyone else just sends messages.”   
“Emma, we’ve been through this, it’s much more efficient if I call. I just wanted to remind you that we have lunch scheduled today at that hipster bistro you like, the one that’s near school.” Oh right, their scheduled lunch date. Emma had totally forgotten about it and how David loves to check up on her at least once a week to see how she’s doing.  
“How is it that a baby lawyer like you gets let out from doing all the grunt work?” She deflects, hoping to steer him away from berating her absentmindedness.   
“I’m not a baby lawyer, Emma. I am a junior associate. Either way I want to see you.”  
“I know, Dave.”  
“I’ll pick you up at noon. Don’t forget.”  
“I won’t. Bye, Dave.” Emma smirks, shaking her head as she stands up and making up her way across the path. She almost doesn’t look as she starts to cross the path, but she’s thankful she does at the last minute or she would have collided with the biker that was going at an accelerated speed. She steps back onto the grass, clutching her heart at the scare the altercation almost provided her and scowling at the way the biker had reacted, flipping her the bird, his blue eyes glaring at her.

 

Emma makes her way into campus hours later right in time for her first class, Sociology of Gender, at nine thirty. Her first class goes by swiftly, an undoubted perk of it being syllabus week, and she’s on to her next class A History of New Orleans. She has to make it across the entire campus in the next ten minutes unless she wants to suffer a scolding from Professor Mills. Emma has taken a handful of her classes, and she’s never really thought that Professor Mills really ever liked her, but her classes were always engaging and gave Emma ample opportunity to practice her writing.   
She makes it just in time and finds an open seat near the back of the classroom, the front seats already filled up to the brim. Emma attempts to walk past an older student in order to get to her seat. The older student who is engrossed in a stack of papers in front of him doesn’t realize that she cannot get to the seat unless he stands up and clears the path.   
“Excuse me,” Emma says clearing her throat and she’s met by the most piercing blue eyes she has ever seen when the older student raises his head towards her. Her breath hitches in the back of her throat because she knows that she’s seen those eyes before, and by the way he’s gaping at her in the same way he probably feels the same way about her. “I need to get to my seat.” Emma tells the mute man and he nods, mumbling his apologies and standing up in order for her to finally be seated.   
“Good morning, class.” Professor Mills walks in, handing out a stack of syllabi to a blonde guy in the front, who is wearing salmon colored chinos. Emma loves how the woman always means business. “This is A History of New Orleans. If you haven’t taken a class with me before, please note that I only allow up to six absences a semester. This class meets twice a week, therefore I’ve given you three weeks’ worth of unexcused absences. Any more absences than the ones allotted, you will immediately receive a failing grade as illustrated in the syllabus and as instructed by the Department of Humanities’ policy.”   
Emma listens intently, her green eyes scanning the syllabus and highlighting all the important information that Professor Mills was emphasizing on.   
“I’m Killian.” The older student next to her says quietly enough save for Emma just to hear it. She casts a sideways glance at him, having doubted that he was actually talking to her, and sure enough he was grinning at her. She rolls her eyes at his obvious attempt at flirting. Emma couldn’t say that he was not handsome, but she honestly had no interest in a person she didn’t know. Additionally, her date with Graham had been scheduled for Friday, so that was the only European that captivated her thoughts at the moment.  
“I’m trying to pay attention.” Emma says curtly, not wanting to instigate the wrath of Professor Mills on the first day of class.  
“If I didn’t know any better I’d say you were refusing to tell me your name, lass.” His British accent travels to her, a playful, flirtatious intonation in his voice. Emma shakes her head, trying her most to concentrate against the irrational pull that was tugging her towards a conversation with Killian.   
“Emma.” She says, against her will or so it seemed. It was as if her body was reacting to what her mind was dictating but she had no control over it. “I take it you’re Mills’ new graduate assistant?”  
“You’re very observant, Emma.” She hates how much she likes the way her name sounds when enveloped in his voice.   
“I’m not, it’s on the syllabus. You don’t look like the GA type.”  
“I assure you I’m very good at my job.”  
“The leather jacket implies otherwise. Are you unaware that it’s August?”  
“I spend most of my time in these freezing offices. What about you, where do you spend your time?”  
“Alone.”  
“Perhaps we can fix that.”  
“Please.”  
“If you insist.” Emma rolls her eyes at his sly grin and focuses her attention back at Professor Mills, who has been droning on about the penalties to be imposed if a student was tardy.  
“Now, I’d like to introduce you to my graduate assistant, Killian Jones. Mr. Jones, if you could come up here for a second please.” He nods at Professor Mills and stands up, not before throwing Emma a wink. Emma hears a cluster of sophomore girls sitting in the front start to giggle as they notice his presence and his unquestionable good looks—something Emma is sure he is well aware of.  
“Right, as per Professor Mills’ introduction, my name is Killian Jones…please everyone just call me Killian.” He seems nervous to be up at the podium addressing everyone and Emma finds it astonishing considering the level of confidence he had just exuded. His hand scratches the back of his neck as he goes about telling his story—how he was born and raised in England and attended university in London, how he applied for Teach for America and got placed in New Orleans to work in a public school in the Ninth Ward. He talks about how he was supposed to stay here just one year, but ended up falling in love with the city, its culture, and how easy it became to call New Orleans home. Emma finds herself completely enthralled by his words, as they resonate so deep within her feelings towards the same city. He finishes by saying that he’s currently doing his Masters in Higher Education and that when he’s not here, nor at school, he works for a low income public school a few blocks down the road, as well.  
“Right, so what you need to know about my position here is this: first, I’ll be in charge of grading all of your written drafts, before the final drafts get graded by Professor Mills, I’m in charge of grading them. Second, I’ll be your go-to guy when we have our mandatory field trips this semester.” He says, writing down his number on the dry-erase board. There was a rustle of papers and an insurmountable amount of giggles as people—mostly just the sophomores in the front—hurried to scribble down his number. “When the time comes for a fieldtrip—I believe we have two, one full day and optional overnight stay at Oak Ridge Plantation a few hours up North, and one half day trip down to the French Quarter, which is coming up soon—and you sense that you may not be able to make it, say you’ve got a fever, your car broke down, or you, for example, almost got knocked out of the bike path in Audubon Park that morning when a stunning blonde mad-woman ran onto it, and you’re understandably distressed beyond repair, I am the one you need to call, especially if there’s a blonde involved.” Emma’s eyes open as big as saucers when he says the last bit, and having been focused on the information he was saying she almost didn’t hear that last part. She looks up at him and sure enough his eyes blazingly connect with hers. She looks away immediately, almost as if burned by the intensity of his gaze.   
Emma doesn’t look at him when he sits down, even though she feels the weight of his gaze on her. Killian frowns, perhaps conceding that the last quip was probably bad form and very inappropriate, however there was something about this particular girl that had him completely mystified. Gods above, he could not explain it even if he could try.  
Once the class is over, Emma hurries to pack her things—knowing full well that Professor Mills did not like it in the least when students started to pack up early—and tried to scurry her way out of the classroom before Killian Jones decided to talk to her again.   
“You seem to be in a rush.” His voice interrupts her thoughts. Emma groans inwardly, not wanting to deal with him for another second.  
“I’ve got somewhere I need to be.” She says quickly, rolling up the cord to her laptop charger and stuffing it in her backpack.   
“Hot date?” He asks casually, but quietly. Emma feels him edge closer towards her and though usually she’d be turned off by his actions, she finds his confidence comfortable and, in a way, welcome. She can’t explain it even if she tried, but if she had to she’d sum it up to the fact that she feels used to his actions—as if it was a trait she knew came naturally to him from years of dealing with him. Except, Emma had just met Killian today, thus rendering that explanation virtually useless.  
“I don’t really see how that’s any of your business.” She responds haughtily, after she reminds herself that she doesn’t know this guy and the fact that he was asking her all sorts of personal questions isn’t something she should feel comfortable with. Not, considering, how little she trusts people in general.  
“Prickly.” He says simply, eying her quietly. He feels a rush of satisfaction when he sees her back straighten up, and an exasperated blush creeps up her neck and around her ears. Something about riling her up was immensely gratifying to him. It was almost as though this was some method of ritualized conduct and that he had to behave this way around her. It made no sense, but the reaction to her was almost visceral.   
“Excuse me?” She asks him, a thin layer of stoicism masking the undoubtedly present cold fury in her voice.   
Excellent, he thought.   
“You’re rather rough around the edges, Emma.” He tells her, grinning widely at the way her blush flushed bright red against her chest, indicating that he had once again hit another nerve.  
The nerve of him, she thought. He doesn’t even know her and yet he’s teasing her, riling her up as if they were long lost friends.  
“And you’re a little too overbearing for my liking.” She looks at him then, zipping her backpack forcefully and swinging it onto her back with dignified purpose. He laughs at her, completely unfazed by her backlash.   
“Is that really the way you want to address the person who’ll be grading you?” He asks, taunting her even further with his tone of voice and the proximity of his body to hers. Emma rolls her eyes and picks up her Camelbak from the floor. She was exasperated, thinking that this little exchange had run its course.  
“Considering you’re a professional, I’d expect you would get over it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, someone is expecting me.” She tells him, making sure her voice is riddled with finality and that her shoulder collides forcefully with his upper arm—forearm, really, since she’s short and he’s lanky.  
Emma doesn’t have time to register the way the heat feels on her skin the moment she steps out of the building. Her pulse is racing thanks to her ever-present desire to run away from any situation that’s remotely uncomfortable, and she—quite literally—ran down the stairs and onto the pavement outside to put as much distance between Killian and herself. Her phone vibrates in her pocket and she takes it out to answer it, not surprised that David is on the other side of the line.  
“Yes, David. I’m on my way.” She mutters exasperatedly into the phone and ends the conversation as she walks over to the black Mercedes that’s waiting for her at the roundabout where the school shuttles do their drop-offs.   
“That was rude.” David teases her when she opens the door and slides into the tan leather passenger seat, relishing in the cool air that blows from the vents towards her face.  
“Says the baby lawyer with a Mercedes.” Emma scoffs, buckling her seatbelt before taking a swig of water out of her Camelbak.  
“I couldn’t say no to a graduation present from my parents.” David mutters turning left onto Freret Street. “You out of all people should know how the Nolans are.”  
“Every bit as bad as the Swans.” She singsongs, her mood infinite times better than it was before she got into the car.   
“Yes, every bit as bad as the Swans.” David shakes his head with a smile.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
A/N: I really enjoyed writing this chapter and if you enjoyed reading it you should tell me why! If it took longer than expected to post, I apologize. My dog recently had to be put to sleep so I've been in a terrible state, but writing this has helped me through it.


	4. Chapter Three

_A/N: Okay so 1) I'm finally getting the hand of a03 and I'm happy to report that actual format will be a thing from now on since I know it exists; 2) My muse has been SO good to me this week, i literally wrote this in two days and 3) I'm loving all the feed back I'm getting!_

_Thank you again for taking the time to read my story, let me know what you think!_

_-Steph_

 

* * *

 

Chapter Three

 

            _It’s dark and she hears the echo her boots make as she walks down the cobblestone steps of the French Quarter with determination. Somehow managing to have her father agree to let her and her older sister Elsa stay with their aunt and uncle in downtown New Orleans was easier than she had expected. He did not like them to venture that far down the crescent city, much more comfortable with having his two daughters close to home. However, with Elsa being promised to Killian’s older brother Liam, and Liam too being drafted into battle in England, spending the night near the docks in order to say goodbye was good fodder for his decision. Emma was sent down to be Elsa’s chaperone, but they both wanted to see their lovers without intrusion, therefore they made their way to the docks together, and managed to get onto the ship with remote ease—it helped that Liam was the captain._

_Liam smiles at her as he hugs Elsa fiercely, he presses a kiss to her sister’s temple and tells Emmeline the number of Killian’s cabin. She tightens the shawl closer around her, the breeze of the river mixing with her nerves and the cold seeps deep into her bones, and makes her way down the corridor. Her heart beats fast, sporadic, almost tachycardiac, her nerves propelling her faster through the dimly lit corridor. She stands outside his door, outside room 622, and knocks lightly, but there is no answer. She resolves to knock again, louder this time and she releases air she did not know she was holding in when she hears the rustle of bed sheets, the lowering of the radio, and the soft thuds of his footsteps nearing the door._

_She’s met with wide blue eyes as she opens the door, he’s baffled and stunned to see her there. “Emmeline, what are you doing here?” he asks, his hand quickly trying to fix his disheveled hair. “Can I come in?” She says quietly, thinking that if he does not let her in soon, she will completely lose the nerve that brought her here in the first place. “Of course, love.” He says, stepping back and letting her in the small stateroom. There are only two beds, but Killian’s is the only one that’s occupied._

_“Not that I mind at all, love, but what are you doing here? If anyone found out, we’d both be dead.” He tells her, his nerves evident as he watches her inspect the tiny crooks and crannies of his stateroom. Her nerves are just as shot, seeing him has made no semblance at placating them, but she wants to do this._

_“Relax, Killian. Elsa wanted to say goodbye to Liam and I figured I should do the same. We’ve only got about an hour.” She says quietly, turning the radio back on finding that Tiger Rag by the Original Dixieland Jazz Band was playing. The jolly tune lifted up their spirits and reminded them of how they had met again, when that same band was playing the night of her debut just a handful of months ago. “Do you wish to dance with me, sergeant Jones?” she says, making Killian smile and stand up, holding her by her waist, and start swaying to the music. “I’m going to miss you, child.” He says, smiling ruefully at her before bending down and kissing her lips. She hates it when he calls her a child, but she knows he does it on purpose just to rile her up. “I’m going to miss you too.” She says quietly after they break apart, her voice thick with unshed tears._

_“I will come back to you, love.” He tells her, his voice firm and determined._

_“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.” She retaliates. The possibility of him not coming back is not something that she wants to talk about._

_“Emmeline, I **will**_ _come back to you.” He repeats, the dancing has stopped now and instead he hugs her fiercely. She pushes back against his chest and looks up at him. “I don’t want to talk about that tonight. Just kiss me again, you foolish boy.” Killian grins, always mesmerized at how tough she is, how strong. ”As you wish.” He whispers before brushing his lips against hers again._

_The kiss starts out soft and firm, but quickly becomes ragged and passionate, much more so than it has ever been between them. Up until now they have been the picture perfect example of an honorable courtship, he would visit her in the afternoons in the parlor, her mother and sister present. They would take walks along the plantation, his arm hooked around hers, and his brother and her sister a mere steps behind. Sometimes, they would race each other to the river, unable to keep up appearances and the old habits developed when they were children. He would steal a kiss or two if they found themselves alone, but never had they gotten farther than that._

_And now here they are, alone in his stateroom, kissing each other fiercely, their hands roaming freely around each others’ bodies. She lifts up her hand and takes out the pin in her hair, letting her blonde waves cascade down her mid back, Killian looks back and she sees that his eyes have darkened, lust present in them. “I don’t want to do anything you don’t want to do, Em.” He tells her, his voice strained. “I want everything.” She responds, turning around and giving her back towards him. She sweeps her hair to the side and his nimble fingers find themselves ghosting alongside the lines of her neck and shoulders before unbuttoning the line of buttons that gave way from the nape of her neck to the small of her back. She hears him gasp lightly as her dress pools around her ankles and his hands ghost down her cotton chemise, feeling her corset and reaching down to her silk petticoat. He starts tugging at the strings of her corset until she finally feels like she can breathe again. He pushes the thin strap of the chemise and kisses her now bare shoulder—making her heart beat faster—before he spins her around, his movements slow as he reaches for her chemise and starts pulling it upwards, their eyes never breaking contact, never in her life more nervous than she has been at this moment, completely naked save for her stockings. She crosses her arms across her chest instinctively, but he lightly tugs her arms away. “You’re absolutely stunning, Em.” He tells her before kissing the hollow spot between her shoulder and her neck, and her heart swells contentedly._

_“Lay down love.” Killian instructs and Emmeline complies, nervous and apprehensive but excited all the same. She watches as he unbuttons his shirt and trousers, biting back a giggle as she observes his undergarments, his cream colored long handles reaching mid calf. “Are you laughing at me?” He asks, a grin on his face. “Perhaps.” She replies, “You **do** look rather ridiculous.” Her laughter dies in her throat when he takes off his undergarments and she sees for the first time what he’s equipped with, a warming sensation pooling between her thighs. He climbs on the bed, kneeling between her legs and dips down to start kissing her, kissing her mouth, her chin, her neck, her collarbone—her chest flushed red with embarrassment—her breasts, dedicating ample time on her sensitive rosebuds. She’s emitting sounds she’s never have before, feeling sensations that she couldn’t even fathom into existence as he continues his trail down her body, caressing, and idolizing every inch of her. “Are you alright?” he asks, noticing her tense legs. “Yes,” she replies breathless, “just a bit nervous, that’s all.” He grins at her, reaching back up to kiss her lips once more. “There’s nothing to be nervous about, my love. I’ll take care of you.” He says before slipping his fingers into his mouth and slowly inserting them between her legs. The slight discomfort she feels is quickly replaced by pleasure she never imagined. She closes her eyes, relishing in the feel of his hand thrusting in and out of her, it’s incredible but not enough. “Killian, I’m ready for you.” She breathes and he stills, looking at her with a dumbfounded expression. Slipping his fingers out of her he gently spreads her legs and settles in between them. “I’ll go slow, love. If you were to feel any discomfort tell me and we’ll stop.” She nods, bracing herself for the next step. She feels as his slick member starts inching its way inside of her, stretching her, the pain subtle but present. He stops once he’s fully sated inside of her and asks her if she’s all right and she merely nods. He starts moving then, slow at first, tentative. The pleasure starts mounting inside her, building up like she’s never imagined before, she wants faster. She demands him to go faster and he laughs but complies, kissing her cheeks, her forehead, her lips. She drags her nails on his back, making him hiss at her and bite at her lip softly. There’s a pressure building in the pit of her stomach, white light starts erupting like fireworks behind her closed eyelids, she feels herself tightening around him, and he nods against her shoulder so this must be positive. She moans rather loudly and he presses his hand over her mouth to stifle her sounds, but she can’t help it. She feels she’ll die if she doesn’t let go of the pleasure she’s feeling, so she does and waves of pleasure wash over her. Killian keeps thrusting into her for a few more seconds before he meets her, his seed spilling into her, becoming one with her._

_She can’t get her chest to stop heaving, her lungs to pacify her breaths. Killian slides out of her and pulls her close, tucking her into his chest where their bodies mold perfectly. His breaths are also short and shallow, as he smiles and brushes back her sweaty tresses to place a kiss on her temple. “That was out of this world.” Emmeline says, finally able gather her wits._

_“Aye, it was.” He concedes. She feels him kiss the back of her head one, two, three times, before he pulls her even closer to him, practically fusing their bodies together. “Will you marry me?” He whispers so low that had they not been alone she wouldn’t have heard it. She turns towards him and looks into his eyes, finding fear and apprehension in them. She stays quiet, waiting for him to say something else, to retract it, to say that he wasn’t going abroad for this foolish war. “I’ve loved you since I saw you when you were six and I was eight and you were covered in mud. You had that ridiculous giant bow on top of your messy mop of blonde curls. I want to love you for the rest of my life, Emmeline.” He continues, before he stands up and fumbles around in his desk drawer, pulling out a black box and handing it to her. “It belonged to my mother.” Tears cloud Emmeline’s eyes as she nods whole-heartedly and he slides the ring onto her finger. It was breathtaking, white gold with diamonds weaved around a deep blue tanzanite._

_She kisses Killian again, only to be disrupted by a rapid knocking on the door._

_“Emmeline, we’ve got to go.” Elsa’s muffled voice travels to her. “I’ll be out in a minute!” Emmeline hurries to get dressed, Killian helping her before slipping into his trousers and haphazardly buttoning his shirt back on._

_“I’ll come back to you, Em.” He says before he opens the door. “I’m a survivor.” He kisses her again, kisses her hand, and her ring before opening the door for her to slip out and meet her sister._

_He left for England the next day and she never saw him again._

That marks the second time that Emma’s dream was so vivid that it woke her up hours before she planned on waking up and she was not able to fall back a sleep. She had gone for a run, trying to rid herself of the emotional drainage that this second dream also produced from her. She’s used to these dreams and she has had them for as long as she can remember, almost as if she was remembering another life a life that both was and wasn’t hers at the same time. But usually the dreams were just that, images that she forgot about, images that permitted her to live her life in peace, but now ever since the semester started, the dreams have been stronger often at times even leaving her dizzy and disoriented for the rest of the day.

            Since school had started on the last Wednesday of August, her week had been short and she was already relishing in her free time that Labor Day Weekend had promised her. She had had her date with Graham on Friday—it was _spectacular_ —they went to a restaurant in the French Quarter, ate their weight in charbroiled oysters and crawfish étouffeé, and had beignets at Café Du Monde afterwards _—_ Graham had insisted in her recommending a place with local, traditional New Orleans cuisine since he had tried it before. He had been dressed impeccably—a light blue button-down shirt, which he had rolled up to his sleeves and left a couple buttons up the top unbuttoned, that he paired with deep navy tailored slacks, making him look refreshed and a few notches beyond casual. After dinner they had taken a walk along the Riverwalk, idly watching the steamboat dinner cruise go up and down the Mississippi and he took the initiative to hold her hand. It was a simple gesture, true, but something about it made Emma’s heart swell up, butterflies insatiable in her stomach. He kissed her when he dropped her off at her apartment later that night, and she fell asleep with the silliest grin on her face.

            Saturday, Emma decides to walk to the Farmer’s Market that was held every weekend, a few blocks away from her house. There was usually live music playing there, and people selling handmade crafts alongside fresh goods. She likes going there because it gives her time to think and time to help the local economy, which after Katrina, was still rebuilding. Sometimes she volunteers with the local community garden—something about working the soil gives her a sense of purpose—today, though, she’s merely there to kill time, maybe buy Ruby some dangly earrings because her birthday is coming up soon, before heading home to get ready for the shenanigans her friends have planned for tonight. She’s pretty sure they’re going to The Carousel Bar and Lounge—a New Orleans classic, a revolving bar that once moonlighted as a merry-go-round that has been there for at least sixty years or so—to celebrate the end of their last first week of college.

            Emma’s phone buzzes in her pocket, knowing full well that it’s David—and that if she doesn’t answer she’ll never hear the end of it—she answers it.

            “Hey, Dave.” Emma greets, a smile on her face as she looks through some glass earrings on display in one of the kiosks. “What’s up?” she asks smiling at an eleven year old manning the booth across from hers, knowing that he’s part of the after-school program in which kids make crafts and then sell them at the market to benefit their low income school. Emma volunteered there once during her freshman year.

            “Hey, Em. What are you up to tonight?” David asks and Emma’s answer just about dies in her throat when she sees none other than Killian Jones returning to the kid’s booth, the one she was directly walking towards. She can hear David calling her name through the phone, trying to catch her attention again, but she’s too focused on swerving on the spot and walking in the opposite direction as casually—and as fast—as her feet an take her but it’s no use, there are so many people in this godforsaken market that the only option she has is to duck behind the booth she was just at. Thankful that it’s just a girl in her mid-teens that’s manning it, she covers the mouthpiece to her iPhone and addresses her. “Can I just lay low here for a while?” The girl shrugs disinterestedly and goes back to flipping through her magazine, “Like, five minutes tops.”

            “Emma?” David calls out again.

            “Yeah, hey. I’m here.” She says, partially out of breath, her heart lodged in her throat. What is the _matter_ with her? She’s never known herself to be such a spaz before. “Well? What are you doing tonight?” Dave asks again.

            “C-Carousel Bar.” She manages to spurt out. How many jobs does Killian even _have_ and more importantly, why is he _everywhere_? “Do you think I can join you?” David asks her again.

            “I mean, yeah I don’t mind if you don’t mind that Ruby is going to be there.” Emma tells him, knowing full well that David tends to avoid Ruby at all costs ever since they hooked up two Mardi Gras ago. “Emma, I am a _grown man_ , okay? Ruby and I can have a cordial, adult friendship.”

            “Yeah, okay.” Emma rolls her eyes. “Is your other friend going to be there?” He asks, and Emma detects curiosity and hope in his voice. On another note, Emma still can’t believe she’s still sitting behind this booth. She takes a peek over the edge to see if Killian is still there, hoping against hope that he’s gone, but he isn’t. He’s still there.

            She hates him.

            “A bunch of my friends are going to be there. You’re going to have to be a bit more specific Dave.” she mutters, praying that the lady who’s walking her direction and eyeing her suspiciously doesn’t have any relation to the teenage girl manning the booth she’s hiding behind. “The one with the short hair? She’s kind of artsy, we gave her a ride back to campus from Magazine Street when we went to lunch this week.” Mary Margaret? He’s asking about _Mary Margaret_? Oh, that’s not going to fly with Uncle George, Aunt Ruth _maybe_ , but not with Uncle George. Mags is too _nice_ for him.

            “Mags? Yeah, she’ll be there. _Does someone have a crush?_ ”

            “ _No._ She just seemed nice.”

           “She _is_ nice. She’s also single.”

            “I didn’t ask whether or not she’s single, _Emma_.”

            “Not outloud, _David_ —”

            “ _Ma’am_ , may I help you?” _Shit_ , Emma thinks as she hangs up on David, the lady who had been eyeing her suspiciously having arrived at her destination as owner of the booth Emma was hiding behind. “You can’t be back here.” The woman warns her forcefully.

            _Emma, think of something. Oh, god. Why is she screaming? Killian is totally going to know that she has been hiding behind here like a spaz. Emma, **think of something**_.

            Emma unhooks one of her earrings—thankful that they were the fishhook kind and that she didn’t wear pushbacks today—and drops it on the floor. “Yes, I was just looking for my earring.” She starts nervously, hoping that Killian wasn’t watching this spectacle—which he totally was—“It’s a family heirloom…thing. I dropped it and it landed somewhere around here...” She trails off, looking at the floor in deep concentration, looking for an earring that she knows the exact location of it. “Is that it?” The lady says sardonically, unbelieving. _How dare she? These earrings belong to Ruby, they’re **important**_. “Oh, my gosh! There it is! Thank you so much. You are a lifesaver. Truly. _Truly_.” Emma gushes, retreating back slowly, hoping that her performance convinced her.

            “ _Mmhm._ ” It didn’t.

            Hooking back her earring she starts—purposefully—walking the opposite direction, once again praying that Killian took no notice of this ordeal.

            “Oi! Swan!” Today was just not Emma Swan’s day. She turns around at her name, continuing the second act of her performance—the one where she pretends that she didn’t know Killian was in charge of the children’s art booth. She hopes that her smile doesn’t look as tight as it feels as she walks over, her hands sheepishly dug in her pockets.

            “Hey, Killian. I didn’t know you worked for the Community Arts Program.” Emma says while she looks intently at the crafts that are showcased on the table, purposely failing to meet Killian’s eyes. “Aye.” He responds simply and she pretends to be engrossed by a key holder made of mostly popsicle sticks, three metal hooks, and that acrylic paint you can get at most drugstores.

            “What brings you around here?” he says, trying to make idle conversation.

            “Oh, you know…I live nearby and I come around sometimes.” _She lives nearby and she comes around sometimes? Was that supposed to be suave and mysterious? Because, it just sounded vague and idiotic._

            “Are you alright? I couldn’t help but notice the commotion from across the hall.” He asks and Emma knows she can’t help but to look back up at him. “Oh yeah,” she shrugs, “I just…I just lost my earring…but I found it!” She gives him a thumbs up.

            _Oh, my god. She gave him a thumbs up._

She looks down again, knowing that her neck is probably flushed and her embarrassment is being given away rather _obviously_. “Where you _hiding_?” Killian asks, an amused tone to his voice and Emma looks back up at him too fast for it to be casual. She stares at him with wide eyes for a handful of seconds—mostly because she was shocked and partly because he was doing this _profane_ thing with his tongue. “No!” she says haphazardly, altogether too quick for it to be anything but flustered. “I dropped my earring…this earring,” she adds, pulling back her hair and pointing at it, “I dropped it.”

            _Idiot. She is a blubbering idiot._

            “Are you always this flustered?” He asks amusedly, his tanned, muscular forearms crossed against his plaid-covered chest and a wicked— _knowing—_ twinkle in his eyes. “Or is it my doing that you’re so anxious?” _Cocky, arrogant prick._

_She hates him._

            _Double hate._

“Okay, I’m going to go now because this is entirely inappropriate and you’re basically my teacher…so I’m going to go.”

            “Come on, Swan. Don’t be like that! I was just teasing.” He laughs, running a hand through his black hair. “You’re too easy to rile up.”

            _Triple hate! Triple hate!_

“Wait…how do you know my last name?” And just like that his face fell for a half-second and Emma Swan had bested Killian Jones for the first time. “Were you _stalking_ the roster looking for me?” she grins, happy to finally have the upper hand.

            “I tend to research things that interest me.” He says with one disinterested shrug that bests her upper hand in the conversation. _Loathe entirely._

            “Are you always such a shameful flirt with all your students?” Emma asks him, exasperated. “Not at all, I’ve always been very professional about the matter.” He replies with a smirk.

            “Then take a page from your own book and stay that way.” She tells him before turning on her heel and walking away from him.

            “I look forward to seeing you in class on Tuesday, Swan!” he calls after her.

            _Eurgh!!_

-/-

            They take the streetcar down to The Carousel Bar and Emma is still irritated by her interaction with Killian that afternoon. He was so forward, and inappropriate, and so damn _irritating_ that she honestly doesn’t see how she’ll manage to survive the semester.

            “You okay, Em?” her friend Elsa asks next to her. Elsa had been her roommate senior year of high school and they both went off to New Orleans together. More so than a friend, Elsa was almost like a sister to Emma.

            “Yeah, I’m just irritated.” Emma says curtly.

            “Is it the dreams again?” Elsa offers knowingly. She’s the only one—besides David and Emma’s counselor Dr. Hopper—that Emma has told about her dreams, since she’s been with and known Emma the longest. “I wish, it’s just this GA that is, like, _obsessed_ with me. I saw him today at that market that sets up shop near Arabella on Saturdays. He was so forward and cocky.” Emma huffs, crossing her arms against her chest and slinking down on her seat.

            “Seems like he likes you.”

            “I don’t see why! I don’t _entertain_ his foolishness! It’s like he gets this sadistic kick out of riling me up.” Emma says, getting more annoyed the more she thinks about Killian.

            _She hates him._

            “You should tell him to fuck off.” Ruby interjects loudly from across the aisle. Ruby—in case you haven’t figured—is a rowdy drunk. “Unless he’s hot,” she adds, “then just send him my way, instead.”

            “You’re drunk, Ruby.” Mary Margaret offers from the seat in front of her.

            “So are you.” Ruby counters, sticking her tongue out at Mary Margaret.

“Hence the point of a pre-game, darling.” Leo says next to Mary Margaret, his four-inch platform stilettos dangling on top of her legs.

            _God, she loves her friends._

            The Carousel Bar is packed when they get there, but Mary Margaret was smart enough to reserve a table for six earlier that day.

            “Why six?” Ruby asks as the waiter shows them to their table.

            “David is meeting us here.” Emma mutters, bracing herself for Ruby’s imminent outburst. “David is coming? Why didn’t you _tell me_? I would’ve worn something—”

            “Sluttier?” Leo offers and Ruby glares at him. “ _No,_ ” she says, “something slightly more _revealing_.” She finishes indignant, her nose turned up halfway towards the ceiling.

            “Ruby, y’all hooked up two years ago during Mardi Gras. That hardly counts as anything, everyone hooks up during Mardi Gras.” Emma tells her with a smirk, after the group places their order with the server, the rest of her friends nodding wholeheartedly.

            “Wow, so much for you guys being my _friends_!” She pouts after winking at the server, a slender, dark skinned guy about 24 years old. Emma can’t help but roll her eyes at her hopeless friend.

            “Girl, you are barking up the wrong tree with that one.” Leo snickers, taking a sip of his martini.

            “You guys are terrible.” She says as she takes out her phone and starts swiping through Tinder. Mary Margaret raises her eyebrows across the table at Emma, urging her to placate the situation. “Bee, why don’t you just go on a few dates with Victor? Y’all always end up together at the end of the night anyways.” Ruby lifts her gaze and just stares at Emma, her nose scrunched in disapproval. “Victor is too fratty for me, Em. You know that.”

            David joins them fifteen minutes later and slips in the corner next to Emma and Mary Margaret—something that Emma had calculated when they chose seats in the first place. Emma slides him a bottle of Stella Artois—his drink of choice, which he accepts gratefully—and he seems nervous, more flustered than usual.

            “How was work?” she asks him and he shrugs. “I wrote a couple of motions, sat in at court for a couple of hours to fill my boss in about the new prosecutor’s techniques…nothing major.” Mary Margaret, Emma notices, listens into their conversation even though she looks as if she’s engaged in the one her friends are having on the other side of the table. The main topic is getting Ruby to lay off Tinder and delete it from her phone.

            “Do you plan on talking to her?” Emma mutters at her cousin through clenched teeth, shoving him with her elbow. “Could you give me a second? I just got here. I need to work up a nerve.” He replies, and Emma notices a small smile creep onto Mary Margaret’s face.

            “So Emma, how did your date with Graham go?” Ruby breaks out from the other side of the table, clearly tired from everyone harping on her love life.

            “I’m sorry? Who the hell is Graham?” David asks Emma, his voice quickly turning into that of an over-protective dad. Emma glares at Ruby from her end of the table. Rule #1 of hanging out with David: Don’t tell David who Emma is dating.

            “Just this guy I met and went on a date with. It’s no big deal Dave.” Emma tells him dismissively, taking a sip of her Abita Purple Haze and making eyes at Elsa, who snickers. “Where did you meet him?” Dave asks her and Emma prepares herself for the inevitable interrogation that will follow until David is satisfied.

            “Leo introduced him to me at The Uptown.”

            “What does he do?”

            “He’s in med school.”

            “What is his age?”

            “Twenty-five.”

            “That’s too old.” He tells her. “No it’s not! That’s as if a college senior started dating someone a year _younger_ than you!” Emma retorts pointedly. She holds his gaze, almost daring him to concede. “Fine, I retract that. Where’s he from?” he continues and she rolls her eyes both at him and at her friends who seem to be enjoying her discomfort too much. “Ireland.”

            “Be serious, Em.” He shakes his head at her, taking a swig of his beer afterwards. “I _am_ being serious, David. He really is from Ireland.”

            “Interesting.” He says, making Emma scoff. “When do I get to meet him?” He asks yet again. “Hopefully, never.” Emma answers.

            “Are you going to see him again?” He asks, a smile breaking through his lips, relishing in the discomfort that he’s bringing to his baby cousin. “Maybe? I don’t know, we haven’t scheduled another date yet.” She exclaims, wanting to bash him over the head with something that’s sharp and blunt.

            “Hmm.” He hums.

            “What?” Emma sighs, wishing she could just materialize something to hit him with. “Nothing,” he says, “just _hmm._ ”

            “Are you done with your deposition, counselor?” she asks him and he glares at her. “For now.” Emma laughs and turns her head absentmindedly towards the door, her smile falters, her skin instantly going cold, and wanting the ground to open up and swallow her whole.

            _What the hell is **he** doing here?_

* * *

 

_A/N- Did I fail at humor in this chapter? Because I had so much fun writing it thinking that it was funny but maybe it's just me and my horrid sense of humor! Reviews are greatly appreciated! For those of you who asked me for Snowing, I hope you're pleased and this clears up your doubts!_

           

           


	5. Chapter Four

_a/n- so this is the longest chapter I've ever written I think and it was mostly because I thought the flashback was kind of dragging on but then i noticed that there was no actual substance to the flashback so i HAAAD to add like...3K more words._

_not that y'all mind i dont think ;)_

_also, i've gotten so many wonderful reviews on this story and i just wanted to thank all of you for giving this baby bit your time and your feedback! i appreciate it immensely._

* * *

 

Chapter Four

 

            Emma’s body runs cold as she takes in the unwelcome sight of Killian Jones entering the same establishment that she’s frequenting. She is thankful that he does not notice her and simply makes a beeline for the bar, where a party was already waiting for his arrival. How could this happen? How on earth is this plausible? What are the chances that the one guy she’s trying her most to avoid, shows up nearly everywhere that she goes, seemingly coincidentally.

            Mary Margaret would say it is fate, but Emma Swan doesn’t believe in fate, she doesn’t believe in magic, she doesn’t believe in anything but what is truthful and reasonable. She wants the ground to open up and swallow her whole. She wants to leave before he notices her and comes over to torment her—something that is quickly becoming a habit.

            “ _Seriously?_ ” she exclaims, not realizing that she says it out loud. Elsa scowls at her inquisitively and whips her head in the direction that Emma is staring at. Her eyes widen and her gaze fixes itself back on Emma’s, “Is that _him_?” she asks. Emma simply nods at her as she slinks back into her seat, her hands going up to cover her face. “Is who him?” Ruby asks animatedly, looking back in the same general direction.

            “Who are we looking at?” Leo quips excitedly next to her, raising his short self slightly higher on his chair to get a better look at the crowd.

            “Emma’s GA, the one that’s obsessed with her!” Elsa answers.

            “Wait, _Killian_?” Ruby asks rather loudly, her blue gaze dead set on Emma, “That’s Hot Tutoring Guy! My _soulmate_.” she cries and Emma’s eyes widen. “ _Please,_ ” Leo says, rolling his eyes.

            “ _That’s_ Hot Tutoring Guy?” Emma asks. Killian is Hot Tutoring Guy? The same Hot Tutoring Guy that they’ve been talking about for _weeks_ now? Hot Tutoring Guy that has a girlfriend? Killian has been hitting on her when he has a _girlfriend_? _The fucking nerve of him._

“ _Killian_ is your GA?” Ruby asks again. “Could you stop saying his name?” Emma exclaims, one hundred percent sure that he has to have heard them talking about him— never mind that they’re halfway across the crowded bar. “Could we stop talking about Hipster McGuyliner?” David sighs, never one to condone hearing Emma or her friends gush about a guy. “He’s not wearing guyliner!” Emma and Ruby say in unison.

            “I’m going to go talk to him,” Ruby exclaims decidedly, and Emma basically throws her body across the table to yank her friend back onto her seat. “Emma, _relax_. I’m just going to go talk to him. What’s the worst that could happen?” she says simply, cocking her eyebrow at Emma as she stands up and starts making her way over to Killian and his group.

            “He could see me and decide to torture me some more, _that’s_ the worst that could happen.” Emma mutters darkly, finishing what is left of her beer, “I’m going to need something stronger than this.”

            “From the looks of it, you could get him to buy you the next round.” Elsa snickers, bringing her own Whiskey and Coke to her lips. Emma rolls her eyes, her focus on the dark brown bottle in front of her and on the fact that David and Mary Margaret seem to be in their own private conversation. They’ve inched closer to each other in the past ten minutes, and when he whispers in her ear and she giggles, all Emma wants to do is gag. She takes a peek at the bar where Ruby has already infiltrated Killian’s group, her elbows resting against the counter and her cleavage showcased for her prey. Killian doesn’t seem to be the last bit interested in her charade, something that brings an odd sense of satisfaction, though it shouldn’t because Emma isn’t the least bit attracted to him— _liar, she’s a liar_.

            “His friend is cute,” Elsa pipes up, her eyes staring at the older guy in Killian’s group. He’s taller than everyone else in the group, his eyes pale blue, his hair closely cropped but curly, his nose was long and straight—just like Killian’s, “They look like brothers.” Leo adds. Emma nods, her gaze comparing and contrasting Killian and the older guy. She can’t shake the familiar feeling she gets when she sees them together, almost as if she had met them before. Which, of course, is a silly thought to entertain, as she only knows Killian and in the short time she’s met him, he’s been nothing short of a pain in her ass.

            _Stop staring at them._

            She wishes she wasn’t as drawn to them as she is but from the corner of her eye she can see that Elsa hasn’t been able to take her eyes off of them either. “I feel like I _know_ them,” she says, her voice distant and wistful.

            “From another life?” Leo scoffs and Elsa simply glares at him. Emma wants to voice that she feels the same way about them too, but she can’t seem to find her voice.

            _It’s stupid anyways._

She looks up again, she doesn’t know why but it’s almost as if something inside of her was forcing her to look up and be drawn to him, as if she were a moth and he were the flame. Raising her gaze towards his general direction, she sees Ruby motioning to their table and Killian’s eyebrow shoots up, a smirk erupting on his face as their eyes meet. She quickly looks down, a rebel flush creeping up her chest and around her neck.

            “I’m going to get another drink. Anyone else want anything?” Emma says, resolving to drink herself out of the stupor Killian and company have bestowed upon her—and more so to get out of his target lest he has any inclination to sit at their table and pester her some more today. Elsa takes her up on another Whiskey and Coke, and as Emma starts to make her way towards the bar, she can feel his eyes on her. She looks up, meeting his gaze through her eyelashes, and he grins wider almost as if he knows that the reason she’s flushed has everything to do with him and nothing to do with the beer she just had.

            It takes her a while to get through the crowded lounge and towards the revolving bar, patrons having left to stand and try to fit in any available space after all the tables were taken. She’s glad that she loses sight of him as the crowd engulfs her, she feels as if she can breathe again. Emma fights and wiggles her way through the throng of people in order to make her way towards the bar, her short frame not helping her as she tries to gauge the attention of the bartender. It feels like it’s been an eternity as she finally reaches the front of the bar, and as she looks to the side she sees that the throng of people has somehow managed to shuffle her three spaces away from Killian and his group.

            _Just kill her now._ She squares her shoulders, her back rigid as she waits for the bartender to notice her, forcing herself to not look sideways at Killian even though she can sense that he’s looking directly at her—no doubt with that smug smirk on his face that after two encounters she has grown to loathe with every fiber of her being.

            She wishes that the bartender would pay attention to her already so she can get out of there unscathed. “Oi Will!” she hears Killian call out, “Can you help out the lass, mate?” The bartender, Will she gathers, nods at him and takes her order, apologizing for the delay. She turns her head towards Killian who gives her a genuine smile, no trace of sarcasm behind it. “Thank you,” she says rather awkwardly and unused to a softer side of the Killian she’s met the past couple of times. Will comes back with her two drinks and as she starts to hand him the money, he holds his hand up and tells her that they’ve been bought and paid for.

            “You don’t have to do that,” she says to Killian as she makes her way towards him to thank him—after all it was the polite thing to do. “Don’t mention it, love,” he says with a wink, “Cheers to your senior year,” he adds, raising his pint of Guinness in her direction. “Allow me to introduce you to everyone,” he starts, “This is my brother Liam, our mate August, and I believe you know Ruby,” he finishes with a grin.

            “I know of Ruby,” Emma answers with a smirk, which makes Killian grin even wider. Ruby rolls her eyes and goes back to paying attention to August, who seems very taken with her. Emma knows it’s no use, she’ll end up waking up next to Victor tomorrow, regardless of whom she’s currently flirting with. “Emma is one of my students, Liam,” Killian continues.

            “Don’t let my little brother bother you, Emma,” Liam tells her, a warm smile on his softer features, “Killian here thinks everyone is hot for teacher.”

            “ _Younger brother_ , Liam,” Killian interjects, shoving his brother in the side with his elbow, “and I do not.” She laughs, thoroughly enjoying the banter between the two.

            “Say, Swan…may I call you that?” Liam starts. “Sure, you’re not the only Jones that seems to like calling me by my last name,” she replies, a knowing smirk on her face as she notices the top of Killian’s ears turn crimson. “That blonde lass in your party,” he says but trails off midsentence, his gaze locked on Elsa and his index finger ghosting his lips pensively—something Emma has seen Killian do when he looks at her.

            Not that in the past few days Emma has spent a lot of time looking at Killian.

            _You know, because she hates him._

_Double hate. Triple hate. Loathe entirely._

“Is she single?” he finally asks, scratching the back of his neck nervously—a trait he shares with his younger brother. “Maybe,” she starts, “not for long though.”

            _Liar, dirty liar._

            “Would you like me to be your wing-woman tonight, Liam?” Emma offers casually, a teasing smile breaking across her face—one that’s matched by the one Killian wears on his own.

            “Oh, I _like_ her, little brother,” Liam turns to Killian with an approving smile.

            “As do I,” Killian mutters, agreeing whole-heartedly, and Emma is surprised to see that his gaze is sincere, yet fear immediately starts creeping up her legs and spreading throughout her whole body. She excuses herself before things get any more serious than they ought to be. She shakes her head as she heads back to her party, trying to rid herself of the way Killian’s sincere gaze seemed to affect her.

            _What the hell was that?_ Where was the snarky commentary that she was fully expecting? Where was Killian’s evident desire to rile her up and mess with her temper, making her anger flare out and her skin flush in contempt? And, _what the fuck_ was that unabashed sincerity that flowed from him?

            She’s not sure she likes the softer side of Killian, not because she’s not attracted to it but because it’s so honest that it scares her beyond measure. When she finally makes her way back to the table she slides Elsa’s drink in her direction. “How much was it?” She asks, starting to dig in her purse for cash. “Nothing, courtesy of one Liam Jones,” Emma tells her, sitting down.

            “I think you should go talk to him,” she tells Elsa, who raises her eyebrow inquisitively and looks back towards the bar where Liam raises his glass in her direction. “Do you think he’s okay?” she asks Emma, her eyes bright with excitement. Emma shrugs her shoulders, “I don’t think there’s any harm in finding out. He was pretty interested in what I had to say about you,” Emma finishes, grinning encouragingly at Elsa who bites her lip before asking Emma how she looks. “Radiant,” Emma tells her.

            “Okay, I’m going,” Elsa says with determination—more for her own benefit than for Emma’s—and stands up to make her way towards Liam whose grin couldn’t be wider.

The night only gains momentum after their choice encounter, what with Emma and Killian’s respective groups being inevitably linked to the other’s due to Liam being increasingly interested in Elsa, and Ruby seemingly infatuated with August. They settle on leaving the Carousel Bar—David and Mary Margaret lagging behind, deep in their own conversation—and heading closer to Mid-City, where Killian and his brother live.

            “We are going to a hookah lounge,” Ruby had bounded over to their table at The Carousel Bar and exclaimed decidedly. “The hookah bar Uptown closed an hour ago, Bee,” Emma responded after checking her watch and realizing that it was already close to midnight.

            “Exactly, which is why we’re going to the one in Mid-City that closes at four in the morning,” Ruby responds, as if the question was an insult to her person. Emma rolls her eyes, as she has no real desire to go all the way out to Mid-City with three pseudo-couples, Leo, and Killian.

            A half hour later, however, they are on their way to Mid-City—without Leo, who had opted to meet up with his roommate at the French Quarter instead—Emma, squished against the door behind the passenger seat next to Ruby and August (there was no way in hell she was getting in Killian’s car), after insisting that Mary Margaret ride shotgun next to David. It’s a seventeen-minute drive down Canal Street, and by the time they get there Emma’s legs are cramped and her head feels light after the earlier libations had set in. When they arrive, parking places are scarce and David opts to park a couple of side streets over, right in front of an imposing New Orleans mansion which comes fully equipped with its own eerie cemetery.

            Emma hugs her leather jacket closer to her body after the humid day has turned into a rather chilly night. She’s not sure she likes the idea of spending even more time with Killian, apprehension settling in her stomach for sure, but Elsa seems to be happy as she waves Emma over at the couches she, Liam, and Killian have selected near the back of the lounge, so Emma pays no mind to the apprehension and ends up having to sit right next to Killian.

            _Of course._

            They order four hookahs total—the shisha ranging from peach mint, rose petals, grape, and something called _Egyptian Pharaoh_ —hummus and baba ghanoush, and enough draught beer to sustain a sizeable frat party. Emma is hyper-aware of just how close Killian sits beside her. She feels the friction of his jeans against her bare thigh, her dress having ridden up as she edged forward to scoop hummus onto a slice of pita bread. She notices how his eyes skim over her lithe body when she slides off her leather jacket as the room turns hot and smoke circles all around her.

            “Are you excited for next Saturday?” he asks her as he passes the hose to the peach mint flavored hookah, mumbling a quick and rushed apology as he once again left his mouthpiece attached to the hose. Emma stays silent as she presses her own mouthpiece into the hose and starts inhaling the peach flavored smoke, her chest rising methodically for a good ten seconds. She relishes at the way he looks at her—her mind hazy with the mixture of effects produced by the tobacco and beers she’s ingested—and at the familiar way smoke feels as it seeps into her lungs. She leans back into the couch, resting her head against the dark terra cotta colored wall, before she exhales a foggy stream of smoke. “What’s next Saturday?” She asks him, a tantalizing smile forming at her lips, “I was not aware we had made plans.” She passes the hose to David who sits next to her.

            “ _We_ personally didn’t,” he says as he leans his head back against the wall, taking a hit from the _Egyptian Pharaoh_ hose, “Although, that very well be subject to change once you admit that you’re attracted to me.” Emma cannot control herself and rolls her eyes dramatically at him. “I was talking about the field trip to the French Quarter,” he clarifies, grinning at her.

            _Right, that’s this upcoming Saturday._

            “Oh, right,” Emma nods, taking the hose from his hand as he offers it to her, “the field trip. I mean, I can’t say that _excited_ is the word I’d choose but, sure. I’m looking forward to it.”

            “You don’t have to hide it, love,” he starts, his blue eyes twinkling mischievously in her direction, “I know for a fact that you’re excited to spend a whole day with me.”

            “ _Half_ day,” Emma corrects him, “and do you hear yourself when you talk?” Whatever snarky remark he’s about to make gets interrupted when a very brazenly drunk Ruby pleads for Emma to do one of her smoke tricks. The latter part of the group had been trying—and rather failing—at making smoke rings and waterfalls, for the past ten minutes.

            Emma shakes her head, in no mood to play Ruby’s little games. “She can do almost anything,” Ruby exclaims and the group—even David—starts egging her on to do _something_. She shakes her head again, hating being the center of attention and hating Ruby for bringing the spotlight on her. It’s not until Killian joins in, giving her the wolfish smile that she’s grown to identify as his trademark—not, the one that makes her weak at the knees, though, no matter how wobbly they feel when he _does_ smile at her like that—that she gives in to the peer pressure.

            She starts small, inhaling sufficient amount of air to make smoke rings, waterfalls, and French inhales. She’s only good at all this because that’s what she and Elsa used to do during their late night escapades from boarding school—more than half of the times that they got in trouble with the headmistress was because they were doing things they weren’t supposed to: smoking, drinking, making out with boys from their brother boarding school underneath the bleachers during Homecoming. “She does this really cool one against the table,” Ruby continues, “she can make the smoke cover the entire thing and sometimes she can make the smoke rise up like a tornado.”

            _Remind her to kill Ruby._

            “Do show us, Swan,” Killian encourages her, his hand naturally placed between her shoulder blades, making her skin erupt in goose bumps. If he notices, he doesn’t let it show and she’s grateful for it. “Fine,” Emma concedes, “just clear the stuff out of the table and turn off the fan.” Once they do just that Emma kneels in front of the table, her eyes meeting with Killian’s as he eyes her in amazement. She takes the hose of the _Egyptian Pharaoh_ and starts inhaling as much smoke as she can before placing her mouth near the edge of the table and letting the smoke leave her mouth in a slow, milky fog that covers the entire length of the wooden table. “That’s fucking brilliant,” Liam says from across the table.

            “Aye,” Killian agrees, “do the tornado one!” he adds excitedly. Emma shakes her head but concedes nonetheless, inhaling the smoke and filling her lungs to capacity before lowering her mouth near the edge of the table again, exhaling a concentrated amount of smoke before straightening up and gliding her hand into the middle of the table and lifting it, a swirling stream of smoke trailing vertically behind it. “You’ve got to teach me how to do that, Swan,” he tells her as she sits back down next to him.

            She rolls her eyes, “alright, come down here,” she says, pulling him by the shirt and kneeling back on the floor. She spends the rest of the night with her face altogether too close to his as she teaches him how to get a good concentrated flow of smoke across the table before she can even think about moving on to teaching him how to make the tornados. He doesn’t quite get the hang of it until later, but by then someone—August, she thinks—makes a jab at them saying that they were so close to shot gunning into each other’s mouths, and Emma’s body runs cold and she calls it a night on her skills course.

            By two thirty in the morning, Emma is tired and her ride has left without her—David too focused on courting Mary Margaret to remember that he was Emma’s ride home. Ruby, her head nuzzled into the crook August’s neck, and her legs draped across his legs doesn’t seem like she’s in a mood to leave his presence any time soon and head back to Arabella.

            “Did you need a ride home, love?” Killian asks beside her, resting his head back on against the wall, his blue eyes boring mystified into her green ones. “My cousin seems to have left without me, so I’ll have catch the streetcar,” she shakes her head, “it’s no big deal,” she continues, shrugging her shoulders as she slides her leather jacket back on.

            “Don’t be daft, Swan. We’ll take you,” he says matter-of-factly, his thumb gesturing back at his brother who is resting his head on the leather couch, his eyes closed contently as Elsa threads her slender fingers through his curly hair. “Don’t you live around here? I’m not going to make you drive us down and then come back up here,” Emma says, crossing her arms across her chest.

            “And I’m not going to bloody well let you wait for a streetcar at three in the morning,” he answers her with the same finality in his voice that she had used seconds earlier. “ _Come on_ , Liam is knackered but I’ve been on designated driver duty all night,” he bumps his shoulder with hers, “I’ll take you both,” he finishes, tapping Liam on his knee and gesturing for his older brother to stand up.

            “Fine,” Emma concedes, too tired to pick a fight with him about his antiquated gender norms. It wouldn’t have been the first time that she’s waited for a street car at three in the morning, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last, but this time Killian Jones could be _gallant_ if he so wished.

            He extends his hand towards hers and she grabs it, allowing him to pull her up. When she stands she is entirely too close to him, their chests almost touching, his eyes too bright, and his face much too close to hers. She steps back, nervously tucking her hair behind her ear and muttering an apology.

            As they leave the hookah bar, Ruby and August walk on the opposite directions and Emma shakes her head at their retreating figures. “She’ll be okay,” Killian tells her, noticing her discomfort, “he’s a standup guy.”

            “It’s not her I’m worried about,” Emma tells him, grinning, “it’s _him_.” Killian laughs while motioning towards a silver Honda Civic that showcased a Millennium Falcon decal on the rear window, the words _Space Pirate_ underneath it. Emma smiles and waits for Killian to open the doors, before she slides into the passenger seat—upon Liam’s insisting, clearly he wanted to spend more time with Elsa—“Just throw all the papers on the floor, love,” Killian adds sheepishly, pointing at the stack of papers that were previously on the seat and Emma was now holding on her lap, instead.

            “They’re mostly art projects,” he clarifies, “and some English essays from the other school I teach at.” Emma takes a look inside the packet, finding pictures that were clearly drawn by ten year olds and essays whose topic was evidently centered on who the kids wanted to be when they grew up. “You puzzle me,” she confides as he starts driving down Canal Street and takes a left onto St. Charles Avenue.

            “Why do you say that, love?” he asks, a faint grimace on his face. “Not in a bad way, I don’t think,” Emma starts, “You’re just very… _multifaceted_ ,” she continues.

            “You say that like that’s a negative trait,” he counters, a slight falter to his lilting voice. “It’s not,” Emma clarifies, “it just makes it hard for me to pigeonhole you—turn right onto Arabella, and it’s the fifth house on the right.”

            “And why would you be looking to pigeonhole me, Swan?” he asks as he parks in front of her dark apartment. “To make out your character,” Emma responds simply, rather brazenly. The air is thick around them, Liam and Elsa having exited the car and leaving Emma alone with Killian. His gaze bores into her own, “and why, may I ask, are you trying to gauge my character, lass?”

            Emma shrugs, unable to keep her eyes off of his, “I don’t know, yet.” Everything is too intense, the air too thick around them, the electricity between them unmistakably present, the attraction she feels towards him unfathomable. She needs to get out of the car before she snakes her arm behind his neck and lunges across the seat to crash her lips against his. “Thank you for the ride,” she says, rather breathless as she presses the button to release the seatbelt.

            “Aye, anytime. See you Tuesday, Swan,” he nods, just as breathless as she is and seemingly just as disturbed by the interaction. She exits the car and doesn’t look back, awkwardly passing Liam and Elsa who are now getting to know the intricate details of each other’s throats. Flustered, she enters her apartment and goes straight to the kitchen to pour herself a glass of water and splash water on her face after she downs the drink—and a tablet of aspirin—in one go. She hears Elsa enter her apartment five minutes later, and Emma hands her friend an aspirin and her own glass of water.

            “Liam is _everything_ ,” Elsa slurs fifteen minutes later, falling facedown on Emma’s plush queen-sized bed after taking a shower. “You two seem to have hit it off pretty well,” Emma nods, smiling at Elsa.

            “And Killian, is crazy about you,” Elsa continues, making Emma shake her head at her. “You should consider dating him, that way when I marry Liam and you marry Killian, we can be _sisters_ ,” she gushes, slurring just a bit more, due to her excitement.

            “Nobody is getting married, Elsa,” Emma shakes her head, grinning as she turns off the light on her nightstand and permits sleep and exhaustion to engulf her senses completely.

            _Air leaves her lungs in short gasps as her waist is cinched in a corset. “Suck it in,” Elsa instructs as she tugs at the drawstrings one more time, and Emmeline is trying, she really is, but surely her waist is small enough as it is. She sucks in air and makes her stomach flatter nonetheless, the feel of her organs constricting together in order to give her a noticeable waistline interlaced with the domineering heat of the clear and early summer day, making her feel woozy and positively faint._

_All for nothing, all for one pair of blue eyes that she has not seen since she was fourteen years old, back when she was smitten and he did not give her the light of day. She barely slept the night before, her stomach twisting in unwelcome knots, her mind racing with the memories of the first time she met him and of the summers she spent in his company._

_She had met Killian Jones when she was six years old and he was eight. She smiles fondly at the memory of her mother looking at her in disdain, yet her father proud to present her as a lady, despite the fact that her white dress, her hands, shins, and parts of her diminutive face had been covered in mud. This of course was Emmeline’s form of payback towards her mother, who insisted in scooping up her blonde curls atop her head and fastening an immense bow on her ringlets. Her sister Elsa had been luckier, her dress light blue and cinched at the waist with a satin ribbon. She did not have to suffer from the weight of an abnormally sized bow, her hair having been plaited in two long blonde braids instead. The boys—because she had also met Killian’s brother Liam that day—wore matching sailor suits, the trims a royal blue that matched the caps on top of their hair. When she was six and Killian was eight, she found his accent funny and he found her a pest. It was all the quite alright though, given that she found him boring, prudish, and took immense delight in pushing him and his pristine white sailor suit into the mud after he had made fun of her bow._

_They spent their first summer fighting, sticking tongues out, pulling hair, and being pulled apart by their older siblings as they once again engaged in physical exclamations of their intense contempt for the other._

_She would never admit it, but she missed him when he left._

_Emmeline’s father and Killian’s father had met in the Second Boer War and while serving as lieutenants in the same ship, became lifelong friends. For now, however, their fathers were additionally business partners—her father sending large amounts of sugar, molasses, and their choice house liqueur made with whiskey, fruits, and spices found in the plantation to London, and General Jones, through his estate, sold the products in the European markets. With this friendship and partnership, came the understanding that the Major’s children would spend their summers with the LeBoeuf girls in Louisiana in the hopes that far more than a friendship and a partnership, familial ties could also be formed between the two men._

_She was fourteen when she feel in love with Killian, by then her older sister and his older brother had developed feelings for each other as well. Liam was nineteen though, and already enlisted in the Royal Navy. Emmeline was happy for her sister, who seemed to have blossomed before her very eyes. The girl, who was once cool and collected, had let her guard down and accepted love._

_She wished it could have been the same for her. Knowing that Killian and her were also encouraged to engage in proper courting was something that she had learned to look forward to. She longed for the days where he could steal a kiss from her and they could swim in the river, spending lazy summer days feeding the other strawberries they had handpicked and going to balls at night. However, when she was fourteen, Killian was sixteen and he was madly in love with some girl from back home. Her name was Milah, and that’s all he ever talked about. Therefore the lazy romantic summer Emmeline had envisioned, had shriveled up into a hopeless dream of her watching him write Milah love letters, and spending her time alone, riding her mare bareback across the sugarcane fields, feeling bitter and resentful._

_She had not seen him for three years, three years in which he attended school in Cambridge. That summer when she was fifteen, Emmeline felt her heart harden, her walls climb up high around her as she watched her sister fall madly for Liam—who still visited and proposed once he was promoted to Lieutenant._

_She stands outside their imposing home hours later, next to her father, her sister, and her mother, grimacing as she feels a solitary drop of sweat trickle down her back and waiting for the inevitable return of one Killian Jones. She smoothes down the cotton fabric of her navy blue and white striped dress, her hair tucked neatly into an intricate bun, the brim of her white hat shading her green eyes from the blazing sun. Every single minute as she got ready this morning was spent thinking how Killian would most certainly fall flat on his back when he saw her and realized that she had turned into quite the beautiful swan in the last three years. Oh, he would rue the day where he chose Milah over her, when he kissed her the summer when she was eight and he didn’t mean it, when he failed to realize that right in front of his very eyes was the woman he was destined to be with. Yes, he would rue that day indeed. Yet here she is, nervous and unable to help the racing of her heart when she sees the automobile pull up on her driveway, or the fidgeting of her fingers, tugging at the lace gloves she has on in this ridiculous heat, as she sees him and his brother exit the automobile and head in their direction._

_Her sister and she stay put in the back, customarily never being the ones to address the company without being addressed to first. She sees Liam take her sister’s hand in his and kiss the top of it lightly, a huge grin on her face as he does so before he pulls her into a hug. Liam then goes over to Emmeline, hugging her as well, commenting on how she has grown since the last time he has seen her._

_“Killian, you remember Em,” her father’s joyful, boisterous voice states, breaking the conversation Killian currently held with her mother. “How could I forget?” he counters brightly, “I may still have the bruise from when she kicked me in the shin last time,” he finishes with a laugh, inching closer to her this time. She nods her head in acknowledgement of his presence, and raises her eyes up towards him relishing in the way his mouth hangs open when he takes in her matured features. She tries to quell the way her heart threatens to beat out of her ribcage as he takes her hand in his and brings it up to his lips, pressing a kiss over the lace gloves, his eyes piercing into her very soul or so it seems._

_She wants to say something witty but nothing comes to mind and her mother interrupts them, calling to her father’s attention that their guests must be tired from their long journey and could do with some sweet iced tea._

_Killian stares at her quite unabashedly as they sit in the parlor, the tips of his ears tinged red when their eyes meet for a split second before he tears them away from hers. A sense of satisfaction washes over Emmeline, she has got him right where she wants him._

-/-

            _“Are you excited for tonight,” Elsa asks a week later, interrupting Emmeline as she reads on the outside porch, the slight sway of the wooden porch-swing and the summer heat having lulled her almost to the point of dozing off. Inside preparations had been happening all day due to her debut, she was seventeen now and her sister was engaged, therefore being introduced into society was the norm. Em closes her book and lays it on top of her lap. “You know I’ve never been one to be the center of attention,” she shrugs, answering her sister._

_The truth was that she did not care about a ball being held in her honor. What was the point of being introduced into society if the one stupid, lanky boy you were interested had not talked to you at all in the past week? It was silly, that all that Em wanted to do was dance with him tonight, maybe have her whisked away to a corner and he would finally kiss her and mean it, but she was seventeen after all and a girl can dream. However, he had not even attempted to approach her in the past week, save for when he and Liam came over for dinner and spent their weekends at the plantation—most of their duties in Louisiana having been brought upon their warship docking in the Quarter—Killian had rarely been around and when he was, he would tense around her and just leave._

_They were to spend the weekend at the house, and so far all that Killian had done was talk to her father about military strategies and war stories—a topic that once you got her father started on, getting him to stop was a military feat in itself. Elsa having left her, Emmeline resolves to finish the rest of the chapter before begrudgingly having to retreat into her bedroom and permit her chambermaids to start dressing her for her debut._

_She settles on going inside and start getting ready, when—while her nose stuck in the book—she thuds against a hard body. She almost falls but strong hands grab her by the middle and set her upright. “Careful, lass,” Killian smiles down on her. She’s flustered and embarrassed, and she wishes she thought he was a tad less handsome so she could go back to shoving him in the mud. But no, he’s even taller now, his blue eyes shining, and the subtle growth of facial hair makes the wolfish smile that makes her go weak at the knees, look even better._

_“I’ll make sure to look where I’m going next time,” she tells him, “I know you bruise easily.” She makes to move away and go up the stairs but his hand circles around her wrist and pulls her back, “Actually, I was looking for you, hoping to talk to you, lass,” he says, his hand rapidly releasing her wrists when he notices that he’s reached out to her in such a fashion._

_She tries to stay calm and collected, much like her sister, but her heart threatens to beat out of her chest at any moment. Here he is talking to her, his hands having just left her waist, his eyes boring into hers so sincerely. It’s a wonder she is still able to breathe. “I was just wondering if you would permit me to escort you tonight, Emmeline,” he starts, nervously scratching the back of his neck as he asks her, “if memory serves me right, I know that you are not particularly fond of the pomp and circumstance that comes with these endeavors.”_

_“I would very much like that, Killian. Thank you,” she answers him, stepping forward and placing her lips on his cheek before trotting up the stairs towards her bedroom. She smiles as she takes a look at him, still standing near the stairwell, hand outstretched towards his cheek, touching the spot where her lips had been last._

_It feels like it takes her five hours to get ready for the debut. She can hear the guests start to trickle in around seven in the afternoon, the sun still shining as it starts to set in the west. Her blonde hair is pinned up in an intricate hairdo, a black, shining headband secured on top. It was customary to pin the hair up to signify her transition into a woman, and from this moment her hair would be seldom let out of the confines of pins unless she was alone in her chambers. It felt odd to be wearing a deep red colored dress with black embellishments and embroidery, dark satin gloves reaching up to her elbows, and a string of black pearls intricately weaved around her neck. Her mother would not hear about her wearing darker colors, but she surmises that because she is being introduced into society as a woman ready to be married off, a red dress brought all the way from Paris would be the exception._

_Killian waits for her at the steps, donning his Royal Navy uniform, and for the first time in her life, Emmeline feels like a princess. His eyes gleam as he sees her standing next to her mother as she introduced Emmeline to the guests. Her hands shake when he takes her into his arms and they start dancing the cotillion, “Relax, swan,” he murmurs against her ear, “you’ve picked a partner that knows what he’s doing.”_

_Her steps falter at first, but she falls into an easy rhythm after a few moments, “watch your mocking, Jones,” she warns, “I think I’m finally getting this.”_

_“Aye, swan,” he nods, lifting his arm and twirling her before she sways naturally back into his chest, “You’re a natural.”_

_She spends the rest of the night meeting boorish men—all sorts, younger, older, fatter, skinnier, rich, even richer—dancing and conversing with them, as was customary. She would sigh in relief whenever Killian came back and swept her into his arms, or came to give her a glass of champagne, “You seemed like you needed saving, swan,” he would say every time._

_“Why do you keep calling me that?” she asked him after what seemed like the tenth time he called her ‘swan’ in the last hour. The tops of his ears turn red, and he looks at anywhere but her eyes, “Tell me,” she demands, a smile on her face as he expertly twirls her out across the dance floor._

_“Right, well. I just think it suits you,” he starts, his voice rather nervous, “You’ve truly become quite elegant, much like a swan.”_

_“As opposed to the ugly duckling I used to be?” she offers jokingly and his eyes widen slightly, but only slightly. “You were never ugly, swan,” he grins at her, “only a bit rough around the edges.” She stays quiet then, mulling his words but not wanting to get her hopes up by reading too much into them. After all, they do not know each other, they were virtually strangers, “It’s nice to see you soften up,” he murmurs, his hand travelling dangerously low across her back as they stop dancing and he starts guiding her along the room towards the less crowded patio, “It’s nice to see you no longer infatuated with that other girl,” she offers, biting her tongue after blurting it out. She walks across the patio and rests against the cool brick structure of the house. She closes her eyes, enjoying this moment of freedom from all the pomp and circumstance going on inside. She feels him come closer to her, but she does not want to think any of it, she will not give herself any illusions._

_“Not my proudest moment,” he agrees, turning to her and ghosting his fingers around her blonde curls, “I seem to be rather infatuated with someone else now,” he breathes and she can feel his breath hot on her cheek and can see the light gray flecks in the irises of his blue eyes when she opens her eyes._

_“Who is it?” she asks innocently, still not wanting to give into him for fear that it might not be her. “She’s this gorgeous girl that has been in front of me for as long as I can remember,” he starts, his gaze focused intently on hers. “She’s wild and free, she’s smart and pure, and I did not realize just how much I liked her until I saw her again a week ago,” he continues, pressing his lips to the side of her face, her cheek burning with the remnant of his touch. “And I did not realize how much I wanted to keep her for myself until I saw her dancing with other men that weren’t me,” he goes on, pressing his lips to her forehead this time._

_“What are you going to do about it?” she breathes, her eyes focused on his, her fingers fidgeting against the other behind her back. “Well, I want to get to know her again, court her, and spend all the time I have with her,” he answers her, his voice soft and almost pained._

_“But what’s stopping you?” Emmeline asks, wanting him to hear him say that it’s her, wanting him to fully ask her to be his. “Isn’t it obvious, love?” he counters, “I’m terrified that I’ll be pouring my heart out, only to have her tell me that she doesn’t feel the same.” His lips are so close to hers now that she swears that she can taste the champagne on his lips._

_“Killian,” she starts, desperate to close the minimal gap between them._

_“Yes, swan?” He asks, his voice full to the brim with hope._

_“She has been feeling the same for quite some time now,” she whispers seconds before he dips his face towards hers and kisses her again, this time fully meaning it._

* * *

_a/n- the reason I chose LaBoeuf for her last name is because 1) Charlotte LaBoeuf and 2) she's Emma's aunt on her mom's side so there was no point in me making it swan if the name was just gonna get dug in by the patriarchy.  
_


	6. Chapter Five

 

_a/n- here's another long one! sorry this took so long but I wanted to really know what I was talking about so a lot of researching went into this one! I hope you like it!_

* * *

 

Chapter Five

 

            _She cannot exactly pinpoint when she made up her mind, she just knows that she did. It could have been when they declared the war to be over and the troops returned home but Killian was not one of the many boys who were forced into being men, returning home with vacant eyes and tattered limbs. It could have been when Liam returned to her sister as a hollowed man, his shell-shocked screams piercing the night air becoming part of their daily routine. It could have been when she sat on the banks of the glistening Mississippi, reading his last letter to her for a millionth time to the familiar sound of the wind blowing against the sugar canes. It was probably when they held a funeral for him, when the oak casket was lowered six feet under the ground without a body in it._

_She cried for what seemed like eons, the sadness weighing on her features heavily—deep lines etching down her cheeks, her eyes perpetually swollen, her nose and cheeks tinged pink. She grieved for months and on the days she was forced to go outside, she always made her way to the river. They had spent most of their lives growing next to the stream and so she waited there for him, her mind and heart clinging desperately to the words he had written her:_

_“That with a love as strong as ours, it is impossible that even something as dreadful as death will be able to diminish it.”_

_Death. A word she did not associate with their romance. Marriage, was a better word. Children, there was another good one. Love and life, those were the words she associated with him—but death? Death was never an option._

_It had been almost a year since the war ended—one year and nine days to be exact. It was November 2nd, the day that Christians recognize as All Soul’s Day—the day to pray for the faithfully departed. Emmeline and her family had attended mass at St. Louis Cathedral, opting to stay in the city for the occasion. The mass had been solemn, there were hardly murmurs or distractions, many families coming to mourn the loss of the men they lost in battle and those who were lost well afterwards, those whose battles waged deep inside their psyche._

_The bells urging the lost souls to find their way out of purgatory rang as they walked solemnly back to the rather large gray house at the corner of Rue Royale and Rue Sainte-Anne. It was an imposing building, one that was three stories high and wrapped around the entire corner. It belonged to her uncle, and the girls had spent many years as guests in the house in order to better enjoy the parades during Mardi Gras. They ate in silence, then sat in the parlor—Elsa stitching, her eyes wandering nervously towards her fiancé ever so often, and Em spent the time attempting to read, the excited blabbering of their cousin Charlotte making it hard to do so—before finally heading to bed once sun set on the river._

_She stayed still on the mattress; the sky still faintly light outside as she heard the steady breathing of her sister and her cousin, and the faint rustle of the wind swirling through the curtains and into their darkened room. Her mind raced and she knew that this was the only chance she had to attempt to fix her fate. A few months ago, she had heard Ruby, the cook’s granddaughter, telling ghost stories around the kitchen table to an eager group of maids. Her bright green eyes shone excitedly with her experience with a voodoo queen’s magic, who had allegedly connected her with her late mother, and told her that she was to meet a handsome stranger who would take her on a long journey. She had scoffed at the story, unbelieving the words that had come out of Ruby’s mouth. That is, until a month later when she was suddenly engaged to and married a German doctor named Victor, who took her with him to New York. Perhaps it was when Granny—how she and Elsa had always affectionately called the cook—received a postcard from Ruby whilst she was in Paris that Em decided to be a believer, and planned to ask the Voodoo Queen to change her fate._

_She quietly rummaged for her clothes in the darkened room, careful not to stir her companions and risk being discovered. She and her sister had escaped the large gray house on many occasions, the most recent being their trip to the docks a little over two years ago. Emmeline knew what floorboards to avoid, what hallways would be more adequate and less likely for her to be discovered and, as a reprimand, made to kneel on grains of rice for hours seemingly without end. Small gas lanterns lit the corridor, the flames flickering slightly every time the cool November air flitted through the house; she hugged her coat near to her body, her boots carried limply in her hand._

_The kitchen is empty when she arrives, and she thanks God that this is all working according to plan. She ties her boots at the foot of the door, before pushing open the door that leads to the alley outside. She crinkles her nose to the smell of urine, dirt, and alcohol that wafts through the air and tightens the shawl that she carries around her head, tucking the ends into the tiny crevice between her chest and her coat. The Voodoo Queen’s cottage is only a block and a half away from Rue Royale, located halfway in Rue Sainte-Anne._

_As the heels of her boots pad noticeably on the cobblestone street, she’s reminded of the night she saw Killian last; her heart beating loudly in the same way it is beating now. It sets the tempo to her determination, every beat of her heart promulgating another step further to the cottage. She sees her shadow on the street ahead of her, leading her to her destination, much bigger and imposing than she has ever felt in her life. The gas lanterns around the street flicker dimly, the cool November air tinting her cheeks and nose red. She reaches the house and shivers, but whether from the cool that blesses New Orleans during the fall or from nerves and fear, she cannot say._

_It is not obscenely late, and smoke billows from the chimney in the roof, the cottage lit up with visible movement coming from the inside. She knocks on the door and she is taken aback as it opens at her touch, the sight of at least three-dozen candles, hanging bead necklaces in different vibrant colors, shapes and sizes—garlic hanging from behind the door—meeting her gaze. “Madame?”Emmeline calls out when she cannot make semblance of another person in the room._

_“Come in, ma chère,” a smooth, velvety voice with a heavy creole accent beckons her in. Emmeline takes a deep breath and squares her shoulders before stepping inside. “In the back,” the voice calls to her again, alerting her to its exact location behind a curtain of wooden beads, hanging limply on the doorframe. She steps in apprehensively, not quite believing that she was going through with this ordeal. She did not even know what she would ask this woman. She was desperate, she knew this, she just wanted Killian back._

_The sight that welcomes her is not the one she expected. She expected shrunken heads and icons to whatever gods voodoo practitioners worshipped. What she found instead was an elegant dark skinned woman, her hair the color of honeyed caramel, twisted up in an sophisticated up do, her clothes—a lace collared, drop-waist dress—a pristine shade of white. In fact, the only thing eccentric about her, was the sight of her shuffling cards with symbols Emmeline had never seen before on a regular deck of cards._

_“I have been expecting you,” her thick creole accent enveloping the words with unmistakable warmth. “You are very brave coming out here, but I can see that you are not a believer.” She was right, Emmeline was not a believer, at most she believed that the sun would come up every day and that reason and logic had a say in every outcome._

_“Mais, you are desperate, petite fille,” the woman continued, shuffling the deck again and drawing out cards face down, stacking them side by side in groups of six, not once raising her gaze towards Emmeline’s. “Sit,” she said gesturing to the chair in front of the table she was sitting behind. It was not an order, but it sure felt like it; She sat. “Come child, tell Ursula what troubles you.”_

_Emmeline took a deep breath, unsure of how to proceed, unsure how to ask for her fate to be changed. Looking down at her brown leather gloves she sighs, “Madame, I have lost someone very dear to me.”_

_“A lover,” Ursula nods methodically, her eyes are closed but Emmeline can tell that she’s intently listening._

_“He was more than that. He was everything I held dear,” she says, her fingers now toying with the ring he had given her, one that she now wore as a pendant around her neck. “I need to know,” she starts unsure of how to phrase the question—not knowing if she could live with the repercussions of Ursula’s answer—“I need to know if I have truly lost him.”_

_“Hand me the letter,” Ursula says plainly, making Emmeline’s eyes widen and her hand immediately search for the letter she kept in her coat’s breast pocket. It occurred to Emmeline, as she handed the letter over the table—embarrassed as to its tattered condition—that she could not possibly have been the only woman who had come to this parlor seeking answers about her lost lover. Hopefully, she thought, she would be the only one who would ask to have her fate changed. The letter is set in a golden metal plate and five lit white candles surround it. Ursula keeps her eyes closed as she mutters a stream of French-creole words under her breath. Emmeline sits still, hoping against hope that once Ursula resurfaces, her answer is that he is recovering in an abbey in Southern France, his mind faded with some temporary amnesia. She would rather him have no recollection of their time, than the thought of his lifeless body rotting in God knows where._

_“Water,” Ursula says as she shakes her head, her eyes squinting in what seems like pain. “A gunshot through the stomach and then water, too much water, cold water in the lungs, and then nothing.”_

_And then nothing._

_Emmeline sat in stunned silence for what felt like hours but was merely a handful of minutes. She tried to find solace in the notion that at least she now knew where he was, but determination riled through her, stubborn and persistent. “I want him back,” she said, her voice firm and resolute. Ursula gave her an empathetic, almost pitying look,_

_“I cannot bring back the dead,” she starts, “In Haiti there is practice, oui, but even if he were present and I would be willing to do such a thing, he would not be the man you loved. He would be a corpse doing his master’s bidding, rotting and brainless. Nothing more.”_

_Desperation clawed at Emmeline’s insides like a sickness, she would not be deterred. She would find her way back to Killian, but she would not leave her happiness in the hands of fate. “I want him back,” she says again, “I do not care if it is tomorrow, if it is fifty years from now, or a century goes by. I want him back and you are going to help me.” She takes the sack of gold eagle coins from her pocket and places them on the table._

_“What you are asking is grave, petite fille,” she says shaking her head, but weighing the bag of coins on her hand nonetheless. “To test fate is a very risky endeavor, and it involves many sacrifices.” Her voice is somber, carrying the weight of the repercussions that comes with what Emmeline asks. “If you were a good girl and your love was good too, reincarnation is a promise from Papa Legba. A promise that you would find each other; but what you ask is precarious.”_

_Emmeline wants to tell her that she does not care if it is precarious or not, that all she wants it the confirmation that she and Killian will reunite sometime in this life or the next. “All I ask, is that you ensure that reunion,” she says, “no matter the consequence.”_

_“I assure you that the consequences will be dire,” Ursula responds, pocketing the bag of coins, “to challenge fate is to anger the Loa, are you sure your sailor is worth it?”_

_Emmeline simply nods._

_Killian was worth everything._

-/-

            Saturday and the prospect of spending a day in the French Quarter arrives faster than Emma anticipated. She had been woken up early once more by her dreams, the headache that followed was piercing and nearly unbearable. She ran in Audubon Park again, careful to not let herself get run over by English bikers and after that she went home, where she indulged in a long bubble bath—Ruby ended up at Victor’s last night, so Emma opted to savor the luxury of not having to rush the use of the only bathroom in the apartment.

            The bath proved relaxing and provided the much-needed release of her stress, but it did little to soften the harshness of the migraine from this morning. Emma walks into the kitchen in search for ibuprofen, stashing the small bottle in her purse just in case she needed it later, and opts to take out the bag of frozen chicken breast cutlets from the refrigerator. She had almost forgotten that David was having a cookout in honor of the first New Orleans Saints’ game of the season at his house, and she had promised to bring along food with her. David had told her to invite her _friends,_ and considering that he had gone out on a date with Mary Margaret last night, _friends_ meant Graham. Graham had happily accepted the invitation. He had had his first big test on anatomy yesterday, therefore the offer to attend a Sunday cookout was a most welcome distraction. _The poor sap_ , Emma thought, _they haven’t been dating a month and she’s already feeding him to the wolf in shepherd’s clothing that is David Nolan._

            She guesses that this means she is serious about Graham—well, as serious as you can be about a person that you have gone on a handful of dates with. In any case, it’s normal for her friends—but really, mostly just her cousin—to meet the guy she is dating. Apprehension sets in, surely, because she remembers the last time she introduced a guy to David and that once her cousin and her prospect did not hit it off, she employed the tactic of keeping the least amount of contact with him—The Fadeaway, for all intents and purposes—until she stopped texting him altogether. It is both beneficial and detrimental to introduce potential boyfriends to David, beneficial in the way that he sees right through their intentions, and detrimental to those she really liked and ended up being convinced that there was no reason to keep them around. She hoped that Graham meeting David would elicit a beneficial response, because she really liked him.

            Emma is nervous for another reason altogether, however. She knows she shouldn’t be, the main reason being that Killian means nothing to her, but that doesn’t stop the unease that sets deep in her stomach at the thought of him. She was unnaturally drawn to the smug flirt, her thoughts all but consumed with his presence. She was not looking forward to being forced to spend an afternoon with him. Though their interaction last weekend was civil, he hadn’t wasted time in riling her up during class this week. Well, perhaps greeting her with a wink was strictly platonic, and the fact that she ended up paired with him for peer-feedback was more an issue of there being an odd number of students in the classroom. It was the way his eyebrows shot up incredulously when he read her work, striking out complete sentences and restructuring them to his personal liking, and telling her that she had problems with style that riled her up the most. That and her wounded pride at reading his corrections, and finding that the way he fixed her sentences made better sense than how she had originally written them.

            She probably overdid her outfit for the day, but she been itching to wear her new white cotton dress that stopped just above her mid-thigh for a while now, and she couldn’t find a better use for it than making Killian Jones squirm at the sight of it. Fighting fire with fire, roughly translates to fighting winks with short dresses, after all. She slips on some white boxer briefs so as to not risk her thighs chafing and strategically places Band-Aids on her foot to prevent blisters forming thanks to walking all around the French Quarter in a short dress and espadrilles. She swoops her blonde hair into a high ponytail, gauging from the temperature when she went running earlier that morning, walking around the French Quarter in the afternoon was going to be infernal at best. She makes her way to campus ten minutes later and regrets choosing to take a leisurely walk to school the moment the humid heat engulfed her. The oppressive weather could only mean that it would rain soon, perhaps tonight. They were to meet in the garage at a quarter to one, but Emma chose to stop by the small grocery store on campus to get a bottle of water before she fainted thanks to an unprecedented heat stroke. The field trip included lunch, admission to the _LeBoeuf Mansion_ for a short tour of the house one of the most prominent families in 20th century New Orleans, and a choice between a haunted tour or a ride on the riverboat—dinner not included.

            Emma was one of the last ones to arrive—save for the white boy with dreadlocks, who apparently _did_ own shoes, he just chose not to wear them in class nor when he was walking to class, but now his grimy feet were clad in Birkenstocks. They were all waiting by two large school owned vans for Professor Mills to arrive, Killian too busy jotting down a headcount of those present to cause any real mischief. When he looks up to see if anyone new had arrived and his eyes set on hers, he grins widely before checking her name off his list. His grin causes the sophomores clearly infatuated with him to glare at her from where they stood, Emma rolls her eyes at them and focuses her attention on the text Graham had sent her. In all honesty, she needed to focus on anything but the way Killian’s biceps seemed to have the white t-shirt painted on, or the way his hair was swept up by the incoming breeze and how the sight of him in aviator sunglasses and low hung jeans gave her a sense of unease between her legs. Yes, she needed to focus on anything but that.

            “You know, I wish you would have told me this was a formal affair,” Killian’s devious voice swirls towards her. She didn’t have to look up to know that he was smirking, “I would have dressed for the occasion.”

            “This is hardly what I would call formal,” Emma answers, her eyes still glued to her phone, an easy smile forming on her face. “I was just thinking I would meet up with Dave for drinks after he gets off work,” she finishes with a shrug.

            “If it’s drinks you want, I’d be more than happy to oblige you, lass,” he tells her, his fingers threatening to skim the hem of her dress.

            “I’d rather not,” Emma answers, finally looking up at him with a sly grin. “I don’t want to risk receiving death threats from your fan club.” Killian knits his eyebrows together in confusion, as if he didn’t know that the group of sophomores plays MASH with him as the prized husband they one day hope to share a mansion, apartment, shack, or house with. Surely he must know the effect he has on women, Emma thinks, even Professor Mills probably harbors a soft spot for him. Emma nods towards the group that makes her thank the heavens that looks cannot, in fact, kill, and Killian finally seems to catch on to what she meant. “Poor things,” Emma continues, “what will they do when they find out that I’m not the real threat and that that title belongs to your girlfriend.” Killian’s eyebrows shoot up, visibly amused by Emma’s statement.

            _It’s not that **she** wants to know if he has one or not, Ruby does. _

_She’s asking for a friend._

            “Are you asking me if I have a girlfriend?” he asks her, his voice dripping with smug amusement.

            “No,” Emma replies, cool and collected, “Ruby has voiced an interest in it and she made me promise to ask you.” Killian chuckles in mock understanding, not believing her in the least.

            “Of course, _Ruby_ has voiced an interest,” he starts, “but I’d rather know if you share the same curiosity.” His eyes gleam mirthfully, this time his fingers deliberately skimming the hem of her dress. Emma is about to snap at him, her hand ready to swat his away when Professor Mills finally decides to show up and she instructs them to climb onto the vans. Without looking at him, Emma walks across the parking lot to the van Professor Mills would be driving.

            The drive downtown is only drawn out because they take St. Charles the entire way down. The streets are busy for a Saturday, and they caught nearly every red light on the way there. During the drive, Emma hopes against hope that Killian is in charge of the group that takes the riverboat cruise rather than the one that takes the haunted tour. She had chosen the latter, having already done the riverboat dinner cruise with her family when she came down for David’s graduation four years ago.

            She doesn’t know what it is that draws her towards Killian because for all intents and purposes she shouldn’t even like him. He’s entirely too forward, smug, and arrogant— _especially_ when it comes to her writing. If she had to use an analogy to the relationship she’d built with him over the past two weeks was this one: Killian was the kid who would pull her pigtails in pre-school, and Emma would reciprocate by knocking him into the mud with one swift shove against his shoulders. It’s a silly game of testing who will break first; it’s irrational and improper behavior, but she knows that she—just like he—simply cannot help herself.

            He makes a beeline towards her after they park, and it irks her that he just stands casually next to her without saying a word. He says nothing as they walk down Canal Street and turn on Iberville instead of the natural, almost instinctual, urge to turn into Bourbon Street to walk down to the Riverwalk. Emma sighs, she knows that stopping in for a drink is not condoned in a school sponsored outing, but she could really use a frozen daiquiri in a scorching day such as this. Sweat trickles down her back, the humidity making her hypersensitive to her surroundings.

            “You should be paying attention,” Killian murmurs with a smirk as they stop in front of a random two-story house so Professor Mills can begin to tell them the historical facts of New Orleans. Emma shakes her head as she glares at him, and moves closer to Professor Mills, but most importantly away from him. Professor Mills smiles at Emma’s new-found interest and continues narrating how New Orleans was founded by the French Mississippi Company in 1718 and named after Phillipe d’Orleans, the Duke of Orleans and the regent of France at the time. She continues as they start walking back down the street, asking them if they notice the tiles on the sides of the streets that inform the name the street had when Louisiana was under Spanish control. This prompts Professor Mills her to narrate how the French colony had been ceded to the Spanish Empire during the Treaty of Paris in 1763.

            Frankly, Emma thought, this could have all been sent in an email. Or, you know, she could have opened up the New Orleans’ Wikipedia page and read this in the comfort of her pajamas, the air conditioning in her apartment at full blast.

            “Did you know that the port was used to smuggle aid to the rebels during the American Revolution?” Killian asks as he finds his way next to hers again and Emma has to bite back a scream. Why won’t he leave her alone?

            “That’s _so_ interesting.” Emma says sarcastically, just for the sake of getting him away from her, because in reality, she _did_ find it interesting.

            He walks away.

 

            “I thought you wanted to figure out my character,” Killian says as he sits next to her at the restaurant they’re having lunch at before they continued their walked tour of the French Quarter. Emma simply stares back at him, partly amazed at his persistence to have a conversation with him, but mostly irritated that he won’t leave her be. “Look,” he starts once she just shrugs and stays quiet, “it seems that our friend groups are going to be seeing more of each other’s and I think we should at least try to form some semblance of a friendship, lass.”

            “Why will we be seeing more of each other?” Emma asks, perplexed. Sure, they had a good time last weekend, but that didn’t mean they were suddenly the hookah-smoking Brady Bunch.

            “Dave and I have hit it off,” he says sheepishly, his hand scratching the top of his reddened ears nervously, “ran into him at The Uptown on Thursday and had a couple of pints with him.”

            “And here I thought he had a thing for Mary Margaret,” Emma says, taking a bite of her hot sausage and provolone po-boy. “Congrats to the happy couple,” she teases him, her hand covering her mouth full of bread, sausage, and cheese. Killian gives her a deadpan look before breaking out into a genuine grin.

            “You’ve got something,” he says pointing at her face.

            “Where?” Emma asks, apparently wiping at the wrong side of her mouth because he laughs and shakes his head. “Here?” she tries again, but is once again unable to get what he means.

            “I’ll do it,” he says before he wipes mayonnaise from her cheek. _Her cheek._

            _She’s such a slob, she could die._

_-/-_

            The field trip isn’t really what she expected it to be. Usually, when you thought “field trip” as a kid, you were excited for a break from school and doing something remotely fun. As a college student, though, it means giving up an entire Saturday to walk under a scorching sun, and stopping every ten seconds to learn about something you forgot the moment it came out of the professor’s mouth. They’ve been walking around the French Quarter for nearly three hours, they’ve seen everything from the Cabildo, the inside of St. Louis Cathedral, what used to be the old New Orleans Brewery, the house that local legend says Napoleon Bonaparte was meant to live in after his exile, and sat for a whopping five seconds before standing up again at the Spanish Plaza near the Riverwalk. Emma’s feet were killing her, the heat had not let up, and she was hungry again.

            She sighs in relief when the parties break up and half of the group is left with Killian for the haunted tour. It could be worse, she thinks as she sees the sad group of sophomore girls trail behind Professor Mills, she could be stuck with them too. “Right,” Killian starts, clasping his hands together, “I do not know about you lot, but I am starving. What say we head to that slider shop and get ourselves some dinner before we begin?” There’s an enthusiastic noise of approval from all of the eleven people that are present. It seems that Emma wasn’t the only one that was hungry. Emma stays quiet throughout, not being one to be comfortable in a close number of people that she’s not acquainted with. She eats the two of her sliders in near complete silence, sharing a timid smile with a girl called Belle, whom she had seen all four years of college in her classes but hadn’t really talked to. Killian, however, is in an animated conversation with the Hippie Birkenstock Guy, discussing whether or not it’s appropriate for Phish to still be the big-ticket headliner in most music festivals. Killian was against it. Hippie Birkenstock Guy? Well, he naturally disagreed.

            They walk down from the corner of Bourbon Street—where the burger shack was located—to Royal and take a right towards St. Ann and head to the _New Orleans House of Voodoo_ , the alleged house of the Voodoo Queen that took New Orleans by storm centuries ago and the most haunted place in the French Quarter. The perfect location to start a haunted tour, honestly.

            They meet their guide there, a lanky guy in his mid-twenties, wearing all black clothing and a top hat— _really?_ —and after they hand in their voucher, the group of thirteen sped off to walk around the French Quarter some more. The guide didn’t hesitate to tell them that one of them was not going to return, what with thirteen being such an unlucky number. Emma rolled her eyes, starting to think that the riverboat cruise would have been a better option than this. They walk idly back towards Royal as the sun starts setting along the river, light purples streaking across the orange sky. They walk the length of the street, whose antique shops have closed for the day, stopping along the way in front of different houses where the guide— _honestly, she can’t take him seriously when he’s wearing that top hat—_ stops to tell them the story of how the particular house was haunted, whose ghost allegedly still walked the halls, and why their souls just couldn’t move on.

            _A load of horseshit, really._

            The tour keeps going as they head towards the Lalaurie Mansion at the crossroads of Royal and Governor Nicholls. It’s an imposing house, three stories high and wraps around the whole corner. He tells the story of Madame Lalaurie, a socialite and sociopath that moved from France to New Orleans in the seventeenth century. She was widely known as both an excellent social host, and a murderous lunatic who tortured and killed her slaves. Emma had read about her before, and the rumor is that actor Johnny Depp is the current owner of the house. She doesn’t like the feel of the house, it’s big and with the sun setting quickly as summer ends and fall approaches, it makes even a skeptic’s hairs stand on edge. They take a right on Governor Nicholls and walk back up to St. Ann through Chartres Street, a street parallel to Royal and famously renowned for its food as Royal is legendary for its antique shops. The tour ends back where it started at the _New Orleans House of Voodoo_ and they have at least half an hour to kill before Professor Mills and the rest of the group are to return from the riverboat. The _LeBoeuf House_ is only a block and a half away from their current location, Killian had said, so Professor Mills would meet them there.

            Stepping into the _New Orleans House of Voodoo_ is like stepping back in time, it’s a cramped space, the wooden walls adorned with shrunken heads, beads of every shape, size, and color, and candles at least three-dozen candles light the room. It’s dark and eerie, and a god-awful tourist trap, Emma thinks as she scours through the wooden buckets filled with voodoo dolls and gris-gris. There was an entire wall dedicated to vampire lore, the evil kind played by Tom Cruise, not the sparkling Stephenie Meyer kind. Emma rolls her eyes as she sees a necklace made of silver, a cross hanging from the chain.

            “Not a believer in vampires, love?” Killian asks with a grin as he leans against the wall, his arms crossed against his chest. Emma returns his grin with a deadpan look and shakes her head.

            “I don’t believe in any of this _stuff_ ,” she answers, letting the necklace drop back on the rack. “Not vampires, not ghosts, and not voodoo queens.”

            “A skeptic, are we?” Killian grins, if possible, wider. Emma merely shrugs and walks away towards a doorframe hidden by a bead curtain.

            “ _Madame Ursula,_ ” Emma reads the sign above the curtain, “ _psychic fortune-telling, palm, and tarot readings._ ” She scoffs.

            She is more than ready for this day to be over.

            “I dare you to go in and get a reading, Swan,” Killian taunts, his tongue grazing his lower-lip, and his eyes shining brightly.

            “Why? So she can tell me that I’m going to meet a handsome stranger, and that I’m going to go on a journey across the sea?” Emma retorts dismissively, her fingers grazing the quartz necklaces that hung from a display on top of the counter—these were actually pretty.

            “I think you’re settled on meeting the handsome stranger part,” Killian replies cheekily. “Not sure about the journey across the sea, but perhaps I’ll take you to England one of these days.”

            Emma shakes her head, spending a day with Killian had made her grow somewhat accustomed to his shameless flirting. What she wasn’t accustomed to, was the churning she felt deep in her stomach whenever he did.

            “Ah, these are wicked,” he tells her, motioning to the quartz that were attached to a single chain, “they’re pendulums.” His voice is soft but excited, and she can’t help to feel mesmerized when he takes one off the rack and lifts it to her.

            “What are ‘pendulums’?” she asks him, green eyes meeting blue in complete wonder. The stone is beautiful, a deep indigo color, the chain sterling silver with smaller indigo stones weaved into it.

            “They react to your subconscious mind,” he starts, emitting a ‘ _tsk’_ noise in her direction when she rolls her eyes at him. “Basically, you ask a yes or no question and it will swing and guide you accordingly.”

            “I don’t believe it,” she says, “it’s just a rock on a chain.” Now it’s Killian’s turn to roll his eyes, he turns and grabs a jade colored pendulum with a gold chain from the rack and gives it to her. She holds it gingerly, unsure of what he expects her to do with it.

            “Close your eyes and swing it around,” he instructs and she complies, “Now say, ‘show me my yes.’”

            “ _Show me my yes_ ,” Emma repeats and opens her eyes and sees that the pendulum is swinging in the same direction, left to right, east to west. She purses her lips at him, her eyebrows raised in disbelief.

            “Now say ‘show me my no’,” he persists and Emma once again complies. As she says the words the pendulum changes course, the green stone now swinging up and down, north and south.

            _What the fuck?_

            “Ask a yes or no question,” Killian tells her, the familiar wolfish grin forming on his lips.

            “I don’t know what to ask!” Emma exclaims, because suddenly every question that pops into her head is open ended or inappropriate. _Does Killian Jones sleep in the nude?_

            The pendulum switches course, swinging from left to right. _Yes._

_Well then, there’s a thought._

            “Something simple, ask is your name Emma Swan?” he says, his eyes alight with mirth.

            “ _Is my name Emma Swan_?” The pendulum switches course, north to south. _No._

“It’s not?” Killian asks and Emma shakes her head. “What is it?”

            “It’s Emmeline, I just make everyone call me Emma.” She mutters, cursing the traitorous little pendulum.

            “ _Sheesh_ , I can see why,” he starts and she hits him on the shoulder, “Oi! I was just messing with you, lass.” He laughs, and she notices that she likes his laugh. It’s silly and kind of wheezy, but his eyes light up as he does, so she likes it. “Ask if you should get your fortune told,” he instructs, his voice still breezy from the laughing.

            “Fine. _Should I get my fortune told?_ ” Left to right, _yes._ The only word that comes to mind when Killian reacts is, “guffaw.” He fits in an ‘I told you so’ and a 'you have to do what the pendulum tells you,’ between his fit of laughter, shoving her towards the beaded curtain. “Wait,” she says turning towards him, pendulum high between their faces, “Should Killian Jones pay for it?”

            Left to right, _yes._

            Killian rolls his eyes exasperatedly, but shoves his hand into his back pocket nonetheless and takes out his wallet. He hands her grinning self a twenty-dollar bill, turns her around, and pushes her through the curtains. She can still feel the touch of his hands on her shoulders as she enters the darkened room. “Hello?” Emma calls out.

            “Come in, ma chère.” a smooth, velvety beckons her in. Emma takes a deep breath and squares her shoulders before stepping inside. She steps in apprehensively, not quite believing that she was going through with this. She doesn’t even know what she was going to ask this woman. _Stupid Killian and his stupid pendulum._ The sight that greets her seems familiar, she sees an elegant dark skinned woman, her hair the color of honeyed caramel, twisted into braids that reached the middle of her back, she wore a crocheted shirt over a tank top—both a pristine shade of white—and dark-wash jeans. In fact, the only thing eccentric about her was the sight of her shuffling tarot cards.“Sit,” she instructs, a soft smile and warm eyes directed at Emma.

            “You are not a believer,” Madame Ursula starts, shuffling the cards and lining them up in three rows, “the cards do not discriminate, they merely tell you the past, the present, and the future. What you do with the reading is open to your own interpretation. Pick three.” Emma bites her lips, nodding before picking a card from each row. Ursula extends her hand, and Emma hands over the cards she chose.

            “Your past is characterized by the Wheel of Fortune,” Ursula nods methodically, “this indicates karma, what goes up must go down, and vice versa. This card tells me that in your past life, you made choices that brought on perhaps not your downfall, but that of others…the wheel always turns, my chère. What was bad is now good, and ever shall be.” Emma stays silent, biting the inside of her cheek as she mulls over Ursula’s words. She is by no means a believer, but she wonders if Ursula would have some reasoning behind her dreams.

            Ursula’s laughter interrupts her train of thought. “Oh, _ma petite fille_ , you are in trouble,” she starts, her gaze locked intently on the card that Emma gathers represents her future.

            “What is it?” Emma asks, surprising even herself.

            “The Empress, reversed,” she says as if that cleared anything up. “You are being pursued by several lovers, both vastly different from each other.” Emma stares at her dumbfounded. _That’s it_ , she thinks, _she’s asking her about the dreams_. “You have to follow your gut, chère, get in touch with the love that flows through your soul, trust your intuition, your gut, and follow your heart. If you do not, great unhappiness will await you.”

            _On second thought, maybe she should just keep her dreams to herself._

            “Let us see what the future has in store for you, chère,” her smile falters when she sees it, “this is odd,” she says.

            “What is it?” Emma cranes her neck to try to see the card, feeling altogether too invested in this stupid reading.

            “It’s The World, reversed,” she says, her eyebrows knit in confusion, “Usually, when this card appears during the future it is upright, meaning completion, but yours is reversed meaning that you are closed off and stuck.” She looks up to Emma then, her eyes widening in what seems like recognition. “Child, let me see your hand,” she says.

            Emma obliges, if albeit apprehensively, her hand outstretches towards Ursula who takes it in hers. Ursula traces over the line that goes from her index finger and curves down her thumb. “I cannot believe it,” Ursula mutters, looking up at Emma with almost frantic eyes, “it’s you.”

            “I’m sorry?” Emma asks, instinctively retrieving her hand. What did this woman mean, ‘it’s you’? She’s never laid eyes on her before in her life.

            “You have two life lines on your palm that stem from the same spot,” she says, standing up and rummaging around her cabinets. “You have reincarnated,” she continues and Emma is stunned silent on the chair.

            _What the **fuck**?_

            “Look, it’s you,” Ursula tells her, sliding what must be a century’s old newspaper clipping towards her. It’s a wedding picture, dating to the year 1920, and the bride is the spitting image of Emma, blonde hair, green eyes, and the same determined expression. Suddenly, as her fingers graze the picture in front of her, her migraine returns full force and an earsplitting noise rings deep against her eardrum. She needs to leave this room, this intoxicatingly blistering hot room. “Years ago, a girl came to me. You came to me, desperate wanting to be reunited with your boy,” Ursula tells her, staring deep into her eyes and kneeling in front of her. “You wanted to change your fate.”

            “What the _hell_ are you talking about? Years ago? This picture is almost a century old!” Emma exclaims, standing up, desperate to leave this stifling room, “You expect me to believe that I’m some sort of reincarnation from a jilted girl in the twentieth century?” She stumbles, the room fogging up as she tries to make the exit.

            “Please, you need to calm down,” Ursula demands, as she attempts to help Emma get back onto her feet.

            “I _need_ to get the hell out of here!” Emma retorts, yanking her hands away from Ursula’s grasp, this time angering the woman.

            “You will be back Emmeline,” Ursula says gravely, making Emma’s eyes widen. She had never given this woman her name, “Those dreams of yours are memories,” she continues, “you will piece them together, and you will be back.”

            Emma practically runs out of the room, her heart pounding madly against her ribcage, her chest heaves rapidly, and black spots are still clouding parts of her vision. She needs air, she needs to get out of here.

            She sees Killian grinning at her, and must be hallucinating because he’s wearing a naval uniform. She smiles back, her head pounding and the ringing in her ears unbearable when the room fades to black.

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_a/n- did you like it? you should let me know! i love hearing your feedback!_

 


	7. Chapter Six

_A/N: Sorry this took sooo long to update, you guys! I went home for vacation and then school started so I've been swamped. I'll try to update this as quickly as I can! As always, your reviews not only mean the world to me but your feedback help me shape the direction of the story so don't be shy! - Steph_

 

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Chapter Six

 

            Emma felt a handful of sensations before awakening. She had felt a firm pressure against her lips, spicy cinnamon and peppermint flavored air wafting into her trachea and down to her lungs, her eyes fluttered open and she saw piercing blue for a second, before her eyes rolled back into her skull and everything faded to black again. Next, she felt cool air and soft leather seats, the sound of David’s soothing voice. She felt her head on top of a warm pillow, the scent of spice and a calming, gentle caress on her temples. She opened her eyes again—the movement itself almost as hard as deadlifting a car with her bare hands—and she met blue again, the cerulean irises lighting up a darkened, concerned face. The face smiled just before she lost consciousness again, the flickering of the streetlights forming a kaleidoscope of muted oranges behind her eyelids.

            The next lights that hit her are bright, and the room is cold—the warmth she had felt earlier has completely dissipated from her senses. She hears muffled voices calling her name, softly muted and disoriented; the fuzzy vowels and consonants that make up her name struggling to find definition. Her eyes feel like lead as she attempts to open them, the fluorescent lights above her blinding her as she fights to regain her consciousness. Slowly, and somehow altogether, colors start forming shapes and the blinding white light starts dissolving from her view as her eyes adjust to the new location and her cognizance levels outward. She hears the constant beep from the machines around her—the unmistakable sound of a steady heartbeat projected on a screen—the feel of an I.V. wedged in her arm, the searing pain at the base of her head. Her eyes finally focus for about half a minute, and she realizes that she’s in a hospital, the hustle and bustle of an emergency room unmistakable.

            She frantically searches for blue again, but blue is nowhere to be found.

            Her eyes roll back again, exhaustion taking its toll on her, and she passes out once more.

            Emma awakes to the steady beep of the heart monitor next to her bed. She is no longer in the emergency room that much is evident; she realizes that she’s now in a shared room, a thinning pink curtain separating her bed from the empty bed on her right. The room is dark, the only light coming from the muted TV hanging from the wall, and her eyes have a hard time adjusting to the darkness for her to acknowledge the extent of her surroundings.

            Confusion rattles Emma’s entire body, as she takes everything in. The heart monitor next to her picks up the slight increase in her heartbeat as anxiety starts to slowly take the best of her.

            _How did she get here and what the hell happened?_

            She faintly remembers hearing David’s voice in the immediate past, his soothing voice and the cold leather of his Mercedes bringing forth memories of her freshman year, and the times when she would call him at the wee hours of the morning—drunk, stumbling, and desperate for a safe ride home thanks to a leering frat boy—and he’d pick her up, her mind ebbing in and out of consciousness against the cool leather the same way she ebbed in an out of it tonight.

            She tries to rack her brain for any recollection of what happened that brought her to the point of being shuffled through the emergency room and deemed sick enough to have had to sleep overnight on an orthopedic bed and a light blue paper gown. She follows the I.V. immersed in the smooth skin of her freckled forearm up to the drip hanging from the metal rod next to her bed.

            _Had I been TMS-ed?_ She thought as she looked at the familiar saline drip that was being feed intravenously, just like it had been after her first Halloween in New Orleans resulted in alcohol poisoning and Tulane Medical Services was called to her freshman dorm. No, that couldn’t be it, she doesn’t remember drinking at all today.

            Her eyelids are heavy again but she wills herself awake, desperate to know how she got here in the first place. She turns her head sideways, frantically looking for anything in this bare room to jog her memory, and her gaze falls on a sleeping form next to the window, a makeshift cot made from two hunter green lounge chairs. She recognizes the mussed black hair immediately, and the events of the past day hit her like a freight train.

            Her heart pulses quickly as her mind remembers Ursula and the revelation that her dreams were memories, that Emma was a reincarnation, that she had lost someone a century ago and she somehow ended up in the twenty-first century for a glorified do-over. _Bullshit_ , she thought. However, the fact that she did not believe an irrational _lunatic_ in the French Quarter did not stop the way her body reacted to the memory of the event. The heaving in her chest starts slowly, but soon her breaths grow shallow and jagged as she remembers the way the room seemed to close in on her, heat and darkness engulfing her very soul or so it seemed.

            Her heart threatens to beat out of her chest, her trachea is quickly closing up, and breathing is all but impossible as anxiety cripples her. She had never given Ursula her name, but the _lunatic_ knew it regardless. Could it be that the words spoken by the woman were true? She remembers the woman, the smooth darkness of her skin and the contrast with her honeyed caramel hair. She remembers the way Ursula looked at her hand, the lines in the palm of her hand seemingly jogging a memory buried deep in the woman’s long-term memory. Emma cannot seem to eradicate the look of recognition and understanding that Ursula had fastened onto her unbelieving green eyes.

            _She can’t breathe._

            It’s the heart monitor beeping incessantly at the rapid increase of her heart rate that jostles Killian from his sleep. “Emma?” he breathes, his voice scratchy and thick with sleep, his icy blue eyes—deep navy now that his black pupils have dilated in accordance with the lack of light—widening as he realizes her shortness of breath and the alarming rate in which her heart beats. “What’s wrong, love?” He asks as he haphazardly lifts himself off of his makeshift cot, his sock-clad foot sliding across the waxed linoleum floor, making him skid a few inches as he makes his way towards her bed.

            “ _Can’t…breathe,_ ” Emma manages to wheeze out, her mind now occupied with yet another distressing thought as her frantic emerald eyes had met his indigo gaze. _Blue_ , Killian was blue. He had been blue all along. The same very, very blue eyes that brought her subconscious so much comfort in the process to wake up in this room, were now mere inches from her own green eyes causing her more agitation to seep into her already anxious system. She feels lightheaded as he touches her shoulder, squeezing her skin reassuringly, his cerulean gaze locked intensely on her own.

            “Emma, you need to calm down,” he says, taking a deep breath—ostensibly instructing her to do the same—and Emma has half a mind to smack him across the head. If she had the ability to calm down, she would have done so already. She glares at him and a smirk flits across his features almost instantly. “They said that you’d probably have an attack once you came to your senses,” he continues, this time Emma was sure that the way he inhaled and exhaled deeply was an instruction that she had to follow. “You need to steady your breath,” he says.

            “ _I can’t_ ,” Emma rasps out again, the familiar black spots that had appeared at the _New Orleans House of Voodoo_ rematerializing in her eyesight. She frantically looks around the room, the walls seemingly caving in on her. She needs to get out this room.

            In her frenzied state, Emma does not notice Killian pursing his lips, and neither does she notice him shifting his weight on the bed, nor does she notice his hand weaving behind the nape of her neck and threading in her hair. Her trachea all but closes completely when he turns her face towards his own—the distance between their faces no more than a couple of centimeters apart at most.

            _There you are, blue._

            “Em, you _need_ to calm down. Come on, love, count to five with me. Inhale, _one_ , _two_ ,” he says and she complies, inhaling shaky breath through her nose— _three_ , _four_ , “ _five_. Now hold it for two.” She holds the breath she brought in with her diaphragm, the pain she felt in her chest subsiding only slightly. “Atta girl, Swan. Now release, _one_ , _two_ ,” he continues, his voice soft as he exhales with her, a mixture of cinnamon and peppermint in the breath that tickles her chin— _three_ , _four_ , “ _five_. You’re doing amazing, Swan. Let’s do it a couple more times, alright?” he asks and she nods before repeating the process again.

            The room is silent for the most part, the steady hum of the machines, the gradually decreasing beeping of the heart rate monitor, and Emma’s succumbing shallow breaths set the tune to the once erratic atmosphere. “There,” Killian says, a smile slowly creeping onto his lips, “That’s better.” There is no denying that the ambiance around the room is dense, fully charged with whatever crackling energy Emma and Killian seem to share. She wonders if he feels the same irrational, almost gravitational, attraction that pulls her towards his company. _He must_ , she concludes, because what other reason could he possibly give to be by her side at a hospital mere hours before dawn?

            The cool air is welcome in her lungs, as the muscles expand with ease and she no longer feels the constrictive pain that she felt in her chest minutes ago. She had been left dizzy and disoriented; the only tie to reality was Killian’s hand that was still anchored around the nape of her neck, his fingers threaded lightly through her blonde hair. The darkness around the edges of her eyesight has subsided, and she feels better but Killian shows no semblance of wanting to move away from her. She can still feel his warm breath on her chin, and she feels him tighten his grip on her neck as his eyes bore into hers. It was a subtle tightening, a minute hair’s breadth of strength, but she still noticed it. She half expects him to lean forward, to close the already minimal distance between them and crash his lips against hers, but he doesn’t. His hand, instead, loosens its grip on her neck, taking away the feeling of calm _belonging_ with its withdrawal but leaving behind scorching sensitivity on her skin.

            “What happened?” she manages to ask, attempting to mask the discomfort she feels as he scoots away from her, wedging at least a foot’s length of distance between them.

            “You took a right nasty fall there, Swan,” he nods, scratching the tip of his ears that were still tinged red.

            “I gathered that,” she replies, “but what happened to _me_? Why am I in the hospital?”

            “Doctor said that you fainted due to heat exhaustion and you were suffering from extreme dehydration. Not that you’re to blame, the sun was bloody unforgiving today.” He says matter-of-factly, lifting himself off the bed and going over to a cabinet where a water pitcher was left unperturbed. He pours two cups and hands her one, “Here.”

            “Thank you,” she says after nearly chugging the entire cup in one gulp and extending the cup out to him, making him smile as he pours her another glass and hands it back to her. “I feel like I was hit by a freight train,” she says bringing her hand up to her temple and wincing when her hand makes contact with her head.

            “That would be the nasty concussion you got once you smashed your head against the floor,” he says with raised eyebrows, pointing at her forehead. “You’ve a lovely red bump to go with your very sullen complexion,” he grins cheekily as he sits back on her bed, his hand making its way to touch the bump in discussion.

            “Shut up,” Emma says, swatting his hand away and glaring at him when he fails to stifle his chuckling. There’s a traitorous muscle lifting the corner of her mouth, and the smallest hint of a smile is enough for it to be mirrored and enhanced on Killian’s grinning face. “You said that they told you I’d have another attack once I woke up,” she starts, bringing her knees up to her chest and resting her chin on them, “I’m guessing I had one before?”

            “ _Och_ , aye,” Killian assents through a yawn, outstretching his arms before lying across the foot of Emma’s bed. She tries not to look at the way his shirt rides up with the movement, exposing a sliver of the toned abdominals lying beneath the white fabric. She wants to ask him what he’s even doing here, why he felt the need to stay with her. “They reckon that’s the reason you fainted…said you must have had at least an acute anxiety attack to have aggravated your already heat exhausted and dehydrated self,” he continues. Emma can’t help but taking in the sight in front of her, the way nearly one third of his lanky body dangled off the orthopedic bed, the way the muscles in his upper arms did not struggle to find definition as he crossed his arms behind his head, and the way the long dark lashes in his closed eyes cast shadows against his cheeks. Feeling her gaze on him, he opens his eyes and turns to look at her, a concerned expression clearly etched on his features.

            “I saw you when you got out of the parlor, Swan. You looked like you had seen a ghost,” he starts, his gaze boring into hers intently as he attempts to read her. “What happened in there?” he asks.

            “Nothing happened, Killian,” Emma starts, lying through her teeth, “if something did, I don’t remember.”

            She hopes her answer is vague enough to deter him from asking her about what happened. The last thing she wants to do is open up that can of worms, and tell him what Ursula had told her. Partly, because she was embarrassed about the whole thing—it’s bad enough that it landed her in the hospital after fainting in front of half her class—but mostly because she doesn’t believe a word that Ursula told her, and even if she _did_ it was none of Killian’s business to know about it. The second she told him that she was an alleged reincarnation from a girl who died who knows how long ago would land her an immediate transfer to the psychiatric ward.

            “I don’t believe you,” he says resolute and she can hear exasperation in his tone behind his thinly veiled attempt at sounding curious instead. “You have your reasons for keeping quiet, and I respect that, but I _know_ something happened in there that caused all this.”

            “Killian, I said I don’t remember. Just drop it, okay?” She says curtly and in no mood to divulge what hat happened. Exasperation prickles at her skin like a natural reaction, almost a visceral one, at the way he had talked to her. Her mind immediately shifts to the notion of having met him before, making Emma freeze at the realization that comes with it. She doesn’t want to validate Ursula’s words, so she wills herself not to think about past lives.

            _Because it’s all bullshit and if Killian is the one she changed her fate for, she’d sooner choose to throw herself into the Mississippi River._

            They stay in uneasy silence for a handful of minutes, his words still hanging in the air—an acknowledged elephant in the center of the room. Killian leans back against the bed once again, his breath steady. Emma bites the inside of her cheek as she watches the methodical rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. Her knees are still pressed flush against her chest, a physical manifestation of the barrier she intends on wedging between herself and Killian Jones. “Can we change the subject?” she asks quietly, not daring to meet his eyes, and focusing more at picking at the hangnail that protruded from her left thumb.

            “Sure,” he answers, his eyes closing before he turns his head towards her and his comforting blue eyes meet her straight on, “what would you like to talk about?”

            “Well, for starters, why are you here?” she asks quietly and he stalls, his eyes widening. She feels the traitorous muscles of her mouth start to turn up once more at the sight of an uneasy Killian Jones. Even in the darkness she can see that his skin has flushed slightly, and the once steady intake of breath is now noticeably erratic.

            “I’m not sure what you mean, love,” he starts, suddenly timid and aware of just how far up his midriff his shirt had risen to. “Am I inconveniencing you? Because if I am, I can leave,” he says, lifting himself up and making to move back onto his makeshift cot to pack up his belongings. Emma’s hand instinctively moves towards his and grabs it, both holding him in place and making her stomach somersault in response.

            “No, stay,” she says in earnest. In all honesty, hospitals spook her—always reminding her of illness and death—and she’d rather not be left alone. “I was just wondering why you, why not David or Ruby?” _Or Graham_ , she thinks, the first time her mind travels to him since she regained consciousness. She’s not so sure he’d be all too keen on another man keeping her company like this—strewn across her hospital bed with his shirt having been three quarters up his midriff mere moments ago—but then again, the handful of dates they have been on have not really given her a sense that he’s the jealous type.

            “David was going to stay,” he starts quietly, looking down at where their hands were still joined, “I had called him just moments after you fainted and we rushed you here when you were not responding after…” he trails off sheepishly for a few seconds, his hand travelling up to scratch his ear nervously before saying that it didn’t matter what she wasn’t responding after, just that she simply wasn’t.

            “He was quite adamant in staying even though he had planned to surprise Mary Margaret at the art show she was being showcased down at the Marigny,” Killian continues, his hand now rubbing against the back of his neck and his eyesight anywhere but on her own. “I managed to convince him to go once the doctor said that all you needed was rest, told him I would take care of you if need be and that he should go surprise Mary Margaret since tonight was the last night he could go see her show. That was one reason, anyways.” He looks up at her then, and Emma is not sure if it is the way his thumb is tracing circles on the back of her hand that causes goose bumps to erupt all over her skin or if the way he’s looking at her is to blame instead.

            “What was the other reason?” Emma asks quietly, cocking an eyebrow inquisitively at the way he chuckles at the question.

            “You asked me to,” he says, a simple shrug of his shoulders accompanying what to her was an earth shattering statement. So earth shattering, in fact, that the idea of her reaching out to him, asking him to stay, while she was semi-conscious was enough to remind her that anything with Killian was entirely too inappropriate to keep up. If not just because she was seeing someone, but also because he was in charge of grading her this semester and possibly the next as well if she decides to take _History of New Orleans II_ —which has always been her plan. She slips her hand away from underneath his, and wraps her arms around her still propped up knees. Emma doesn’t fail to notice the shadow of unease that flits through Killian’s features at the loss of contact.

            “I don’t remember that,” she says quietly, feeling the sudden surge of embarrassment flushing her cheeks. “I’m sorry,” she says, “you were probably tired after a long day, the last thing you wanted was to sleep between two chairs at a hospital.”

            “It’s really quite alright, Swan,” he tells her, his hand back to scratching the back of his ear and she hears the nervousness on his voice as he speaks. “I wanted to stay,” he   continues and Emma knows, she _knows_ , that he feels attracted to her. And it’s not like she hasn’t noticed that he’s attracted to her with the way he shamelessly flirts at her, she definitely has. No, the fact that _now_ , when the room is quiet and they’re by themselves, is when she hears just how much he likes her. She can hear the worry in his voice, see the sincerity behind his deep blue eyes when he tells her that he wanted to stay because at the end of the day he’s begun to care about her and that _terrifies_ her to her very core. It’s bad enough that she has Graham interested in her, but she has to have Killian care about her too? Two immensely different men, both caring about her in the same way and she has no desire to be torn between them.

            Her already terrified mind flashes back to Ursula, the card she had drawn symbolizing her present, and the fact that she _was_ being pursued by two lovers, both vastly different from the other. Emma levels her breath, not wanting to risk another attack, trying not to let her mind stray to the thought of Ursula being right. Because, if she was right about one thing, was it possible that she was also telling the truth about Emma’s fate being sealed by a deal she allegedly struck a century ago?

            Rationality and stubbornness urge her to prove Ursula wrong, to prove that she still had a say over her life, and that she still had a right to _choose_. “Killian, I’m seeing someone,” she blurts out, the words hanging limply in the air, swirling around the tension that filled the small hospital room. She was choosing appropriate, she was choosing civil and chivalrous, she was choosing someone who has been himself from day one, and she was choosing Graham.

            “Graham,” Killian nods at her, standing up and walking towards the window. “Aye, I know, lass,” he says, smiling ruefully at her blank expression. He tells her how Graham had practically ran through the door, saying that he had seen her name in the admittance sheets he had been looking at as he was signing in to his night shift, and immediately went up to see if she was alright. Emma takes in what Killian tells her, her belly swelling up with warmth at the idea of Graham being worried about her and running to inquire about her wellbeing. Not that Killian _hadn’t_ done the same; after all he had _stayed_ with her all night, but she still doesn’t really know him. Aside from flirting shamelessly and bonding ever so slightly at that hookah bar last week, she can’t make out his character and most importantly she cannot get a read on what kind of person he is. Graham, on the other hand, is as easy to read as the magazines that line up the checkout lines at grocery stores. He doesn’t hide from her, he doesn’t keep things from her, and Killian—well, he’s a complete mystery to her.

            “Did you get along with him?” Emma teasingly asks Killian, who is now perched at the edge of one of the green chairs, “he _is_ Irish after all.”

            The wolfish grin that she is accustomed to seeing gracing his features appears as he says, “Aye, we got along. He’s alright for a ruddy Irishman.” She grins at the slow reappearance of flirty, inappropriate Killian, frankly she’d rather him than stoic, quiet, and uneasy Killian. “Though I must say,” he continues, the wolfish grin spreading wider across his face, “I rather hoped you’d know better.”

            Emma chuckles as she shakes her head, she really _does_ like Killian as a friend, perhaps she’d do well with taking him up on his earlier offer. She leans back into her pillows as silence engulfs them once more, and she decides to finally stretch her legs in front of her. She takes in her surroundings, following the IV drip from where it hung till the crook of her elbow, her gaze focusing on her turned palms, Ursula’s words hitting her again. She brings her right hand closer to her as she scrutinizes the lines on her palm, and sure enough a faint but undeniable second line stemmed from between her thumb and forefinger and traveled almost down to her wrist. She checks her left hand, finding the same situation. Emma sighs as she stares into her palm for another second, shaking her head as she slowly closes her fingers and clenches her palm into a fist. Denial isn’t easy when all the factors you’re trying to refute are based in truth.

            “Do you believe in fate?” she asks, more for herself than anyone else. For a half second Killian knits his eyebrows in confusion before he smirks.

            “I thought we just stated that you were not available, Swan,” he states with a snarky grin, “If, however, you’re trying to imply that being with me is a matter of destiny you simply cannot refuse, I’d be more than happy to oblige you, lass,” he finishes with a wink, biting his lips as he raises his eyebrows suggestively.

            “Just answer the question, Killian,” Emma scoffs, shaking her head.

            He smiles as he mimics her stance, crossing his arms across his chest before lying back on the chair and propping his feet up on the identical chair opposite him. “No,” he says, “I do not believe in fate.”

            “Why not?” she asks him. He stays quiet for a few moments, mulling over his answer.

            “I don’t like the idea of someone telling me that my life is already decided for me,” he starts, his words coming out slow and methodical, “I’d much rather think that life gives you a series of paths to choose from…that you draw your deck of cards and you get a choice between the paths you’re dealt.”

            “I like that idea,” Emma says through a yawn, her eyelids suddenly heavy with sleep, and her body tired.

            “You need rest, Swan,” she hears Killian voice travel towards her as she feels the warmth of a blanket being draped over her.

            “Will you stay?” she asks and she swears she can almost hear him smile.

            “I wouldn’t dream about leaving,” he answers her. “And don’t worry, I didn’t forget to tell Ruby about the chicken you were adamant on needing to be marinated.”

            “How did you know—” she starts to ask, her voice heavy with sleep, when Killian interrupts her,

            “You talk in your sleep,” he says.

            “That would explain a lot,” she mumbles and hears him laugh before sleep overwhelms her completely.

 

            She wakes when she feels muffled sunrays shining on her face, the warmth of the sunlight a welcome sensation on her skin. If she had a dream she doesn’t recall it and chucks the notion to the fact that she was so exhausted from everything that happened. It felt nice to wake up without a migraine for what felt like the first time in months, and she’ll gladly take the discomfort in the crevice of her arm from sleeping with a needle wedged inside her skin over the splitting pain she’s been waking up with any day. She turns to look for Killian but he isn’t there, at least one of the chairs he had been using as a cot having been set back to their original place. In his stead she sees the familiar form of one Graham Humbert resting his sleeping head on the mattress as the rest of his body sits on the other chair. He must have been holding her hand, because his rests mere inches away from her own.

            Emma bites her lip as she takes in his sleeping form. He looks tired that’s for sure, and his hair is visibly longer than it was the last time she saw him, before he had holed himself up for his anatomy exam. Still, he’s attractive as ever; his skin almost golden in contrast with the sea green color of his scrubs, the scruff on his face thicker than it was two weeks ago. She threads her hands through his thick wavy hair, relishing in the way he smiles against her touch and opens his eyes slowly.

            “Hey,” he says softly, taking her hand towards him and pressing his lips against it.

            “Hey yourself,” Emma responds, willing the surge of butterflies that take residence in her stomach to calm down.

            “How are you feeling?” he asks, reaching out to examine the bump on her head and apologizing profusely when she winces at him touching it.

            “I’ve been better,” she says dryly, smiling at him as he tells her to scoot and sits on the bed with her, settling under the covers.

            “I can imagine,” he responds, “you had quite the nasty fall.”

            “Maybe you can do something to make me feel better,” she says timidly, nuzzling her head into the crook of his neck.

            “Is that right? What would you have me do?” he asks, playing along with her though he knows where she’s going with this.

            “I think you should kiss me,” she says matter-of-fact, and he obliges soon after. He moves soft and firm against her lips, the taste of coffee still present on his tongue as he parts her mouth in a deep and thorough kiss.

            “How was that?” he asks, his voice gruff and his breath hot against her lips.

            “I feel much better,” she responds. “But I think I’ll need more before I make a full recovery.” Graham obliges her with another kiss, his lips softer against her own this time around.

            They spend the morning together and he drives her home when she’s discharged. He doesn’t ask about Killian and she doesn’t intend on bringing him up. Despite her protests he helps her get settled back in her apartment, making her breakfast as she takes a shower.

            They’re not due at David’s till later in the afternoon. The game is scheduled to start at four, and Emma hopes Graham is not too tired to opt to spend the time they have between now and the game with her. She’s missed him, and she’s missed being around his company. And maybe it’s out of character for her, but she’s smitten and she has no desire to hide it. It’s the first time in a long time that someone takes a genuine interest in her and she’s incredibly comfortable with that. Being with him is so easy because he’s straight with her and always lets her know what he’s thinking, and the fact that this feels like a mature adult relationship is _refreshing_ , to say the least. She remembers what it used to be like before him, the sharp contrast between her first boyfriend Neal and Graham—and not to mention the change in her persona. Neal had never felt real to Emma, feeling more like an accessory than a boyfriend, and in truth she didn’t see him nearly enough to develop any real feelings for him. When he ended the relationship, opting for a beautiful dark-skinned girl named Tamara over Emma, Emma did not cry nor did she feel the least bit upset. She knew that Neal and she wouldn’t last forever and by the time that he dumped her, she was eighteen, had a car, and invites to formals all throughout most of the Ivy League fraternities. In hindsight, saying that she was fine was probably a bit of an oxymoron; Sure she was not upset by the break up, but internally it cemented the notion that she had developed as a child: Love wasn’t real, and it never would be. It’s because of that notion that Emma thinks that she should be more apprehensive, more scared to jump into anything with Graham and three weeks ago she _was_ , but being in his company in the last couple of hours has given her another revelation. She loved the feeling that she got whenever she was with him, the wanting, the caring, the honesty and simplicity that came with being with Graham. It was as easy as breathing, and for the first time in a long, long time, she felt ready for that.

            Emma steps out of the shower and puts on some shorts and her favorite New Orleans Saints jersey, braiding her damp hair as she makes her way to the kitchen. Graham stands behind the counter drinking a glass of orange juice and flipping through this morning’s edition of _The Times-Picayune_. He points at the plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast and simply says, “Eat.”

            She eats in silence, noticing how incredibly ravenous she actually was once she realized that she hadn’t had a bite to eat in at least twenty hours. He sits next to her, his attention still on the newspaper in front of him but his hand gently caressing her bare thigh. It’s a simple gesture, a quite _natural_ one at that, but it swells her heart with elation and she smiles despite herself.

            “What is it?” he asks as he notices the way the corners of her mouth have turned upward.

            Emma shrugs. “I just really missed you, that’s all,” she says and he nuzzles his head against her upper arm, kissing her freckled shoulder before he mumbles that he had missed her too.

            “Do you want to go to bed?” he asks her, his voice rough as he trails kisses from her shoulder and up along her neck.

            “To bed or to sleep?” she sighs, knowing full well that he must be exhausted after his overnight shift.

            He chuckles and slips her earlobe between his teeth before he whispers, “I think you can figure that out by yourself.”

            Emma doesn’t have time to think as the next second his mouth is hot on hers. His fingers graze around her damp plaited hair, wrapping themselves around the blond locks and pulling her towards him. The movement is brusque, rough and surprising, but not at all unwelcome. Up until now, Graham has been chivalrous and reserved with her, never pushing her boundaries, letting Emma make the first move. They haven’t been intimate, not yet, and by the looks of it that was about to change. She _had_ straddled him two weeks ago on the black leather couch that was positioned in her living room, but they hadn’t gotten any farther than what happened that night—his lips rough against hers, his hands cupping her breasts underneath her shirt, her fingers threaded through his light brown hair, and the _straining_ illustration of just how much he wanted her, pressing against her clothed core.

            Now Emma knows that no matter who decides to pull up in the driveway and stumble drunk into her apartment, they were not going to go back to pretending that Graham wasn’t two seconds from being completely sheathed inside of her and that it was _natural_ for them to be staring at a TV screen asking them if they still wanted to continue watching a TV series long forgotten and paused mid-scene. No, as he lifts her and turns her towards her room, and she guides him in the right direction, Emma knows that there’s only one activity present in both of their minds.

            Once the door closes there’s a blur of clothes being thrown across the room and kisses being stolen in the middle of the act of undressing. They move to the sounds of panting breaths and brazen looks, sheets being rustled away from their original resting spots to make space for themselves. He spends ample time kissing her, her mouth, her temples, her collarbone, and the swell of her breasts, before he slides inside her. He pauses for a moment before moving, and she loves that he does because she too is savoring the pleasurable sensation that comes with having someone deeply sated inside of you. He moves then, slow at first but bucking faster when she pleads for more, and more until she feels herself tighten around him, his name a soft whisper on her lips. He follows her soon after, kissing her forehead before he rolls off of her.

            “So this thing today, am I correct in thinking it’s a test?” He asks breathlessly. She turns to him and laughs at the way his hair was sticking up every which way.

            “Yes, that’s correct. I’m feeding you to the proverbial wolves, if you would,” she answers him, her fingers threading through his hair, trying to smooth down the hairs sticking up at his crown and wiping the ones sweat had matted onto his forehead.

            “Then this must be getting serious,” Graham says quietly, lifting his arm so she can scoot up closer to him and rest her head on his chest.

            “I’m not sure, I rarely get to see you,” she counters, biting back a smile at the way he rolls his eyes at her. She closes her eyes at the sensation of him trailing his fingers from her hair to the curve of her back. Were they getting serious? Yes, they had just had sex but, in all seriousness and in the collegiate scheme of things, did that really mean anything more than just satiating carnal desires?

            “I’d like to change that,” he says, tightening his grip on her and rolling her back on top of him. She sits up, her hands splayed evenly on his chest as she looks down at him and notices the focus and drive behind his gaze. “I can’t seem to get enough of you, Emma Swan.”

            “Was this before or after you saw that another guy was taking care of me?” Emma asks him with a smirk as he sits up and rests his back against the headboard. It was an awkward few moments of shuffling, but soon they’re back to where they had started—with his hands gripping her hips and her legs on either side of his lap.

            “Oh, definitely before,” he says with glinting eyes before kissing her on the cheek, “and during,” he says before he kisses her jaw, “and after,” he almost growls as his teeth nip her neck, sucking her flesh in such a way that it was sure to leave a mark.

            She laughs as they tumble into bed again and he has his way with her once more. Later, when she wakes around noon, when his arm is draped around her middle and he pulls her closer to him in her sleep, she smiles not just at the idea of Graham by her side. She smiles at the fact that while in his arms she dreamt of nothingness, a black void devoid of weird dreams and past lives.

            As dreams should be.

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_A/N: Presented without commentary...._


	8. Chapter Seven

_A/N: Oh, god. Okay, sorry this took so long! How awful is it when you have the idea of how a chapter is going to come out, you have the main skeletal outline drawn out and you have how it ties to the oncoming story down pat, but writing it is like pulling teeth? So yeah, I did not intend to get this story out on a monthly basis, and I'll try to get 8 out as fast as I can, but I can't promise anything so yeah. Huge thanks to my best friend/beta Laura (billyfuckingkaplan.tumblr.com) for looking over this and taking on beta duties while she juggles grad school and working for a certain sorcerer's apprentice._

_also oooomggalkdflaksdfjla at that season premiere i am so dead._

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Chapter Seven

          Denial is an amusing thing. It’s a _powerful_ thing, sure, but it’s amusing nonetheless. Why is it amusing? Well, think about it. How is it that simply choosing not to believe something is real sets off a seemingly logical chain of reasoning in which we ignore the blatant truth that is being showcased into one’s life, opt to transform what’s easiest to grasp and insert validity into it? We choose the lie because, when faced with an unwanted truth, lies are much easier to swallow than the truth. To the desperate mind, that mind that clings to the thinnest thread of hope, lies can be transformed. And if that transformation helps the mind that’s so desperate to avoid the consequences of the truth it has learned, then a lie is good enough whether it is moral to believe in it, or not.

In the past few weeks, denial has been the fodder, the fuel that has driven Emma Swan into her everyday life. Ursula had told her that her dreams were memories, and once she pieced those memories together, she would be back in her parlor. But, if regaining her memories meant accepting the truth behind Ursula’s revelations, then it was settled, Emma would simply choose not to dream. At the hospital, the doctor’s surmised that her panic attack, both before and during her hospital stay, was just an illustration of her acute anxiety and therefore they referred her to a psychiatrist—unnecessary, since she already had Dr. Hopper—and prescribed her benzodiazepines, psychoactive tranquilizers commonly used to treat anxiety. The first night she took the medication was that Sunday after the first Saints game of the season. She had settled in the crook of Graham’s arm, and fell asleep soundly. That next morning she woke up to the sound of her alarm going off, and as she got ready for class she couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that she had no dreams, no splitting migraine, and most importantly how well the night before had gone. Emma found herself smiling stupidly at her reflection, thinking about David’s wholehearted approval and how Graham had pulled her aside during halftime and told her he wanted more, and as he kissed her to the steady hum of the cicadas, she chose to give him more just like she had chosen not to dream.

          Graham was her boyfriend now. Her _boyfriend_ , a relationship status so foreign in her mind as Cantonese was on her tongue. But as foreign as it was, she still she dove into uncharted waters head first, letting his touch ensnare her body, and letting her choice overwhelm her senses. They fell into a routine quickly enough, with Emma spending nearly all her free time at his apartment or Graham spending his free time at hers. He’d drop her off at rehearsals—theater was a hobby of hers—and she’d fall asleep on his bed later that night, fully sated after a much needed midnight romp before Graham would head off to the hospital. In the mornings she would wake up in an empty bed, feeling sore, the tension almost raw between her thighs, her friends and homework neglected, but her mind distracted from the truth, and her heart feeling very much full.

          Some mornings—lucky mornings where Graham had his day off from the hospital and his only class started at one—she found it borderline impossible to leave her bed and going to class instead of spending the day tangled up with him. “Stay,” he would whisper, his voice thick with sleep and his hand draped possessively over her stomach.

          “I can’t,” she would respond, a sigh escaping from her lips, as his mouth would reattach itself to the spot on her neck he was quickly growing fond of. “Maybe just this once,” she would concede seconds later, when her mind was fogged with want, and her body at the mercy of his fingers. She would convince herself that she was allowed to take some personal days since she has always been a model student, and she _deserved_ to stay inside, cozied up to her boyfriend while tropical thunderstorms waged war outside of her apartment.

Surely, no one would miss her.

It went on for days, rainy days that stretched into weeks and fused September into October.  Professor Mills had called her into her office some three weeks after the accident. She almost didn’t make it to Mills’ office on time because Graham, the awful influence that he was, had insisted on showering together. You know, to save time. And while she’s sure that months down the line showers with her significant other will become less sexually charged and more about the actual act of washing the remnants of the day, when one is three weeks into a relationship, showers tend to be about anything _but_ cleaning oneself, insofar that one gets so distracted by their significant other to even remember using the shower for what it was created for.

          Either way, Emma was late for a meeting with Professor Mills. She had practically ran into the Humanities building, taking the flight of stairs two steps at a time, reaching the third floor landing panting, her breaths shallow. She knew she looked a mess, her hair a wet mop of curls twisted into a sloppy knot on the top of her head, her leggings splotched with mud as she had ran across quads, through the wet ground on her way to the building, and Graham’s Tulane Medical School sweater— _her_ sweater now—was wrinkled and frumpy from being put on and off one too many times in the past couple of days.

          She sat in the lounge, scrolling through her phone and responding to Ruby’s needy texts as she waited to be called into Professor Mills’ office.  For days, Ruby had kept badgering her about Graham and Killian, saying that it was “unbelievable for someone who had vowed to be celibate this year to now be in the middle of a love-triangle.”

           To which Emma had responded, “Love-triangles do not happen in real life.”

          “They _so_ do,” Ruby snapped back, “or have you never been attracted to  more than one person at once?”

            “You know I haven’t,” Emma had said matter-of-factly, pulling her covers over her head in attempt to block out the insistence of her brunette roommate.

          “Bullshit!” Ruby exclaimed, pulling back the covers and fixing her steely gaze on Emma’s. “Look me in the eyes and tell me that in the one week span in which you met both Killian _and_ Graham, you weren’t attracted to both.”

            “Does it matter?” Emma practically growled, “I chose Graham, and that’s the end of it.”

            “It _does_ matter,” Ruby retaliated, “the fact that you were attracted to both, had two guys interested in you, _proves_ the fact that you were in the middle of a triangle. Love-triangles _happen_.”

            “Well I’m not in one now,” Emma replied haughtily, her arms crossed defiantly across her chest, “I’m with Graham.”

            The truth was that Ruby had been right. Emma could not deny the fact that she had been attracted to Killian, but that was just it. _Had been_ , past tense, she made her choice and it did not include him. When faced with the decision she opted for sensible, she opted for secure. Too many times in the past she chose the opposite, guys constituting risk, adventure, and that had never ended well for her. Where Graham was stable, reminiscent of the solid foundation of earth, Killian was unpredictable and too reminiscent of a tempest, his clear blue eyes a vivid reminder of the ocean. Clear and solemn on the surface, but an unfathomable turbulent depth that scared Emma to her very core.  The attraction she had felt for Killian had been almost primal, and the pull she felt towards his person had been an unwarranted loss of control. No, it was better to keep him at arm's length, strictly platonic and nothing more serious than that.

           Emma had been so lost in her thoughts that she had to be prodded in the arm by the portly receptionist, signaling that Professor Mills was ready for her.  Apologizing profusely, Emma made her way into Mills’ office. Emma had sat in silence as her professor finished responding to some e-mails. Never one to speak out of term, Emma had decided to look around Mills’ office, smiling as she took in the picture of her professor’s family—two boys, ages ten and five, her sandy-haired husband, an English Literature professor, with his arm around Mills—all four of them grinning at the camera, a classic happy family memento that Emma was sure did not take residence in her father’s office in Manhattan.

           “Miss Swan, I take it you’re feeling better.” Professor Mills had stated, her gaze never leaving her computer screen as she waved her into the room. To anyone else, this behavior would seem rude, but having taken several classes with Mills previously, the professor’s standoffish conduct wasn’t a surprise by any means.

            “Yes, ma’am. Very much.” Emma had replied. She still had no idea why she had been called into Mills’ office. She hadn’t skipped this class—she had made sure of that—and their first draft wasn’t due till mid-October.

           “Killian said you suffered from a heatstroke and dehydration, correct?” Mills had continued, still not looking at her, choosing to rifle through a legal pad instead, the yellow paper rustling methodically.

           “That sounds about right,” Emma had replied with a nervous laugh, making Professor Mills look up at her for the first time. “Do you mind me asking if there’s any particular reason why you called me in to see you?”

            Mills’ eyes had flitted across Emma, making her squirm in her seat and balance the portfolio she supported against her knee rather nervously. Her professor’s brown eyes stalled for a moment on Emma’s exposed neck, a smirk gracing Mills’ features. Emma knew what she had seen. In fact, the main reason Emma had only realized just how late she actually was when she glanced at her phone after her failed attempts at covering her recently acquired hickey.

            She’d kill Graham when she saw him again.

           “Tell me, have you thought about what you’re going to write your term paper on?” Mills had asked, turning to an unused page of her legal pad and scribbling _Meeting with Emma Swan_ in the margin, her cursive neat and fluid.

           “I haven’t ma’am,” Emma had started, suddenly feeling very self-conscious and wishing that she had: a) chosen a topic for her paper already and b) worn her hair down so at least her long tresses would cover the half-assed job she had done whilst trying to conceal the very noticeable burgundy bruise on her neck.

            “You’ve been busy, I take it?” Mills had asked, still scribbling on the yellow paper, but the smirk on her face wider. Emma had been so embarrassed that she had struggled with keeping her composure, her relationship with her professor bordering on a personal level that it had not before.

            “I’ve had rehearsals at the Marigny Theater almost every day,” Emma had offered as a weak excuse, not wanting to supplement it with the fact that she had been neglecting nearly every area of her life to spend time with her new boyfriend. Professors don’t tend to take it well when they see one of their pupils abandon schoolwork in favor of their personal relationships.

            “Ah yes, rehearsals. Well, Miss Swan, your little accident in the French Quarter made you miss quite the important tour of the _LeBoeuf House_.” Mills had gracefully changed the topic, her tone less teasing and definitely more businesslike. Looking up, Mills had seen the look of confusion on Emma’s face and said, “You’ll need to make it up.”

            “Oh,” Emma had offered lamely, the only response she could come up to her professor’s instruction. She had rather hoped that she had gotten off having to visit a musty old house in the French Quarter. You know, what with the fact that she had fainted and been hospitalized.

            “Yes, so you can either get together with Killian and go to the _LeBoeuf House_ on your own and write me an extra paper on it,” Mills had said, making Emma’s heart sink to the pit of her stomach—going to the house with Killian was not something she’d be willing to do—“ _or_ , seeing as you haven’t chosen your term paper topic yet, you can focus it on the rise and fall of one of New Orleans’ most prominent families.”

            Emma had sighed in relief. Door #2 offered a _much better_ alternative.

            “I’d be happy to make it my topic,” she responded simply, scribbling her assignment in her to-do list and snapping shut her portfolio once she was done. Mills had nodded, scribbling Emma’s new topic on her legal pad, and dismissed Emma with a disinterested wave of her hand. Emma had stood up, stuffing her portfolio in her backpack and swinging it onto her back before leaving the office.

            “Emma,” Mills had called her back, her tone bordering between sincere and concerned making Emma turn around and set a quizzical look upon her professor’s face. “You’ve been my student for three of the four years you’ve attended this institution, so I feel like I can cross the thin line between professional and personal.” Mills had stayed quiet for a second, mulling over her thoughts.

            “Yeah?” Emma had prodded, wanting Mills to get on with it so she was not caught in the rain on her way back to her car.

            “I’m correct in assuming that the little souvenir on your neck was not something to remember a certain British GA by, right?” Mills had asked with raised eyebrows, her brown eyes trying to gauge the truth from behind Emma’s gaze. “Because, as you well know, that’s against department policy.”

            “It’s not,” Emma had answered flustered. Mills had narrowed her eyes, incredulous.

            “Because a blind man could see there was _something_ between you—”

            “He hangs out with my cousin,” Emma had cut her off, “there’s nothing there. We’re just friends, honestly.”

            Mills had simply raised her eyebrows, seemingly reaching the conclusion that Emma had been telling the truth, and had said, “Very well then, Miss Swan. I’ll let you go.”

            It had been two weeks since that, since Emma lamely waved her goodbye and stepped out of Mills’ office and out to the outpouring, chilly October rain. Once she had gotten home, she had attempted to start her research paper on the LeBoeufs, but the mixture of the heavy rain splattering methodically against her windowsill and her anxiety medicine had lulled her into a swift sleep not soon after she opened up her laptop. For the next fourteen days she didn’t so much as _think_ about the LeBoeufs, her mind much more preoccupied on learning her lines, dance steps, and mastering the art of not sounding breathless as she sang and danced at the same time.

            Musical theater had been Emma’s guilty pleasure for as long as she could remember, her ballet and tap dances were the only after-school activities that she didn’t mind her mom forcing her to do. After all, you can’t really force someone to do something if they enjoy doing it. When she was ten she had told her parents that she wanted to be an actress, a proper one, one that sang and danced on Broadway.

            Her parents wouldn’t hear a word of it and urged her to pick a more “respectable” career path. Now, though she’s not sure that her parents would deem a degree in Sociology, respectable. Her plan of being a social worker is more than respectable. If there’s something that Emma Swan wants to do, is make sure that she can make a difference in a child’s life. At the end of the day, she had always been a lost girl in her parents’ world of glitz and glamour, and if she can help other lost boys and girls find a place they can call home, then she’ll be happy.

            She has a good rehearsal. Her feet are tired from dancing all day and her throat feels hoarse from running the songs over and over, but she can’t deny it’s a good rehearsal. She has what is left of the day to herself, what with Graham working tonight, Ruby _finally_ going on a date with Victor, and rehearsal letting out a little earlier than usual. While Emma walks to her car, a rather run-down 1965 VW yellow bug, she starts thinking up of possible ideas for tonight—a long bubble bath, maybe some Netflix, buying a bottle of wine at the Rite Aid near her apartment—when her phone vibrates against the palm of her hand.

            “ _Hellooo, David_ ,” she breathes into her phone, tightening the scarf around her neck as she waits for her car to warm up.

            “David? Honestly, Emmeline, don’t you recognize your own mother’s telephone number?” her mother’s abrasive tone swirls out of the speaker, and Emma’s eyes widen in surprise. Ava Swan-Nolan rarely called her daughter, however, in hindsight Ava _did_ call much more often than Thomas Swan III, or Tripp as everyone called him.

            “Mom?” Emma asked apprehensively, whenever her mother called Emma usually ended up doing something she’d never choose to do on her own.

            “Who else would it be, Emmeline?” her mother asked affronted, her still palpable southern twang dragging out the last syllable of her full name. _Emme-leen._

 _Literally, anyone else_ , Emma wanted to respond, but sassing Ava had never gotten Emma very far.

            “I’m just surprised, Mom. Did you need something?” Emma asks, getting straight to the point.

            “Honestly, Emmeline, why do you always think I _want_ something from you when I call?”

            _Because you always do._

            “Honestly, _Ava_ , I was just wondering why you were calling seeing as the last time you did was a month ago,” Emma snaps, her mother having a way to get under her skin in no-time flat. She _always_ does this, she disappears for a while, calls Emma out of the blue with something she wants Emma to do—attend a banquet in her name, rush for her mom’s sorority, play tour guide for some Long Island socialite visiting New Orleans for the fifteenth time—and then acts all offended when Emma calls her out on her shit.

            “Well, I don’t want anything from you! I’ve got a surprise for you, that’s all,” her mom retorts just as hotly, swiftly transitioning into the second phase of getting Emma to do her bidding: Benevolent Mother Who Has Her Estranged Daughter’s Best Interests at Heart. I did this for _you_ , Emma. I wanted to surprise you, make things better between us.

            _Horseshit_.

            “You know, Mom. We might have different views as to what constitutes a surprise,” Emma responds dryly, still parked in front of the theater just in case her mother said something that would make her drive straight into a tree if she had her car in motion.

            “I don’t appreciate your sass, Emmeline. This is an _honor_ , not just for me but for your grandfather as well.”

            _Oh, no. She didn’t._

            “Mom, you didn’t,” Emma says flustered. “Please tell me this is a joke.”

            There’s only one thing that her mother considers an honor, and Emma was _not_ on the same page with her on that.

            “It’s certainly not a joke, it’s an _honor_ , Emmeline. You’ve been chosen—”

            “Mom, don’t you dare say it!” Emma practically screeches, saying it makes it the truth.

            “—as Queen of Carnival for Krewe of Prometheus!” her mom finishes excitedly.

            “ _Mom_ , I never wanted to do that. I _told_ you that before I moved here!” Emma exclaims, slouching down on her seat and burying her face in her hands.

            “Oh, you don’t know what you’re talking about!” Her mom counters hotly, “This is _so_ much fun. I was Queen in 1990, you know, and it was the most fun I’ve ever had! You get to wear a beautiful gown, you’ll get to ride on a float, and you get your own party afterwards where you can invite all your friends and—”

            “Mom! Stop talking! Just stop talking!” Emma has to shout. She had been trying to stop her mom as she rattled off reason after reason of what made being Queen of Carnival so _amazing_. “I’m not doing it.”

            “I’m afraid you don’t have a choice, Emmeline,” Her mother counters seriously, her voice testy and challenging Emma. She always did this. Ultimatums and challenges were Ava Swan’s way of life.

            “Like hell I do! I won’t do it!” Emma exclaims angrily.

            “ _Yes_ , you are. I worked really hard to get you this opportunity, Emmeline. You’re doing it.”

            “I hope you didn’t order the invitations yet, because I’m _not_ riding around in a parade!” Emma practically screams, propriety long gone as she tries to reason with her unreasonable mother.

            “Why did God punish me with such an insensitive, selfish daughter?” It’s her mother’s turn to shout now. Emma knew she shouldn’t give into this, her mother was purposely riling her up to the point of surrender.

            “Punish you? Is that what I am? Your personal punishment?” Emma asks incredulously, trying to mask the pain that the words caused. Aren’t mothers supposed to love their children unconditionally? Wasn’t Emma supposed to be the light of Ava Swan’s life? Truly, it’s a miracle that she’s with Graham. Elsa was always telling her that she needed to open up, but your own mother thought of you as a punishment, how is that remotely possible?

            “Yes you are! You are incorrigible, Emmeline!”

            _Emme-leen_. She hated it, _hated_ that name.

            “Stop calling me that! _Emma_ , I go by Emma and you would know it if you gave a fuck about me!” Emma screeches and she immediately knows she’s lost this battle. Her mother had succeeded in riling her up to the point of desperation, one more comment out of place and Ava Swan would win the whole war.

            “Don’t you dare speak to me that way, young lady!” Her mother shouts back. “I gave birth to you and named you Emmeline, and by God I will call you Emmeline until the day I die.”

            “Promises, promises!” Emma bites back scathingly.

            “You’re riding in that _goddamn_ parade, Emmeline! If not for me, then for your poor, dying grandfather! Why would you deny him the joy of debuting his only granddaughter?”

            That was it. Her grandfather was the big gun, the topic that would surely get Emma to concede. Emma and David visited their grandparents in Old Metairie at least once a week. Growing up they visited New Orleans, where her mother was born, once a year. Her fondest memory of Carnival is sitting on a parade-ladder with David, back when she was a toddler. The memory of beads flying her way, music and colors everywhere, and her grandparents living close by were the main reasons she came to New Orleans for college. New Orleans had felt like home long before she ever thought it did.

            “He doesn’t give a shit about things like that and he is _not_ dying! You’d know that if you called him once in a while! You want to talk about selfish, please look in a _goddamn_ mirror, mother!”

            For a moment Emma thinks that her mom hung up on her, the line silent until she hears her mother sniff on the other side of the line. Phase Three: Bring Out the Water Works.

            “I just don’t know what I did to deserve such an ungrateful daughter,” her mother says meekly. Emma can almost picture her sitting in her vanity, not really crying, just looking for unwanted wrinkles and sniffling periodically until Emma finally caved. Emma was used to this game of hers, and she caved not because she felt bad for the way she treated her mother, but because she knew Ava Swan would not quit pestering her until she got what she wanted, come hell or high water. Emma was worried that hell or high water would constitute her paying for her own grad school tuition.

            “Fine,” Emma says dejectedly.

            “You’ll do it?” Her mother’s voice perks up.

            “Yes, mother. I’ll do it,” Emma groans, the reality of what she just agreed to sinking in quickly. “I’ll be Queen of Carnival.”          

            “You are the _best_ , Emmeline,” her mother says and the next thing she knows, the phone line goes dead.

            Emma lets her head thud against the steering wheel, screaming into it. Her pleasant day, full of optimism and hope, had turned sour rather quickly. Her mother had a talent for doing that every time she called. Emma cared little about debutante balls, or being chosen as the Queen of Carnival for one of the most prominent Krewes, whose parade that ran Mardi Gras weekend. She hated the elitism that came with these older, prominent organizations and the people who attended their private balls—she had attended plenty as a child, and her mother had even been Queen of Carnival herself once—and at the end of the day, she was a college kid. She didn’t want to rehearse in the weeks leading up to Carnival, she didn’t want to wave at thousands of people as she was led on a float down St. Charles street until she reached the end of the parade route. Not all of her friends were staying on after graduation, and what she wanted was to be able to get drunk and enjoy Mardi Gras weekend with everyone, one last time. But for her grandfather, she would do it. She loves that man, and the fact that he was King of Carnival thirty odd years ago and now gets to present his granddaughter as Queen, well that’s a big deal and even though she hates to admit her mother was right, it really _would_ mean a lot to him.

            So, she’ll do it, but she doesn’t have to be happy about it.

            _She needs a drink._

            Emma no longer wants a quiet night in, she doesn’t want Netflix or her own bottle of White Zinfandel. Instead, she opts to drive to the daiquiri shop located about half a mile from school, her mind enraged but on autopilot.  Ever since she had been with Graham, she had no reason to go out to the levee, seeking out her favorite spot to lie out as she watches boats idly chug along the river. It’s a rather chilly day for New Orleans, the temperature somewhere along sixty-two degrees. Even though she had grown up in New York and spent most of her teenage years in a boarding school in Connecticut, three years in New Orleans had her unaccustomed to temperatures dropping below fifty degrees. As she pays for her Peach Bellini and Lime Margarita daiquiri, Emma surmises that it may not be the best day for a frozen drink but she pays it anyways and trudges back to her car, parking it near the back roads that lead to Audubon Zoo. Her feet guide her, the light wind slapping her face as she walks towards the river and away from where the zoo is located. Her ire is subsiding, but only slightly. However, when she reaches her spot—a nice grassy plot underneath a very large, very old southern live oak tree—and sees a familiar tuft of black hair she nearly screams again.

            “What the hell are _you_ doing here?” She asks exasperatedly once she walks up to the very familiar form of one Killian Jones.

            “Oi! That’s a rude greeting even from you, Swan,” he responds gruffly and annoyed by her arrival. Good to know that she wasn’t the only one that wasn’t in the mood for company.

            “You’re in my spot,” Emma states pointedly, standing resolutely in front of him, blocking his view to the Mississippi and the sun quickly setting in the horizon.

            “Apologies, lass, I did not know this spot belonged to you,” Killian mutters, still annoyed. Emma notices his clenched jaw, the tepid anger hiding behind his clear blue eyes, and his closed off posture—arms crossed against his chest, knees tucked neatly against them. Her presence had hit a nerve— _good_ —and she was planning on working it until he resolved to stand up and leave. Was she acting like a child? Probably. Did she give a shit? No, not at all.

            “It does. My initials are carved into the tree you’re leaning against,” she replies smugly and at this his eyebrows rise in curiosity, and he nods in understanding as he turns around and sees that Emma’s initials were in fact carved into the oak tree.

            “So they are,” he concedes but makes no move to stand.

            “Well?” Emma asks expectantly as she hugs her sides, wishing that she had grabbed her leather jacket this morning instead of relying solely on one of David’s old flannel shirts.

            “What?” Killian asks her without meeting her gaze, much too busy taking a sip of his own daiquiri cup and turning the page on the book he was reading.

            _Hemingway_ , Emma scoffs, _figures._

            “Aren’t you going to move?” Emma asks again, her voice irritated. She just wanted to go to her own private spot on the levee, read over her lines, and get drunk as her anger slowly disperses itself and entangles itself with the fall wind swirling around the levee. Was that too much to ask?

            “I wasn’t planning on it. I’m quite comfortable here,” Killian replies matter-of-factly, grounding his hips on the earth and nuzzling against the tree for good measure. Emma practically snarls in her frustration as she decides to give the bastard her spot and opt to lie down on a patch of browning grass at least ten feet away from him. She lays her entire body face-down, her fists grinding into her eye sockets, trying fruitlessly to ease the irritation away from her system, but, she swears to god if Graham tries to call her _one more fucking time_ , she’ll throw her goddamn phone into the Mississippi.

            “ _Son of a bitch_ ,” she mutters as her phone buzzes for what seems is the fifteenth time in the past ten minutes. She shuts it off brusquely, before throwing it back into her backpack and going back to highlighting her lines on her revised script.

            “I can’t help but to feel like something is vexing you, lass,” Killian offers loud enough for Emma to hear him, making her roll her eyes disdainfully.

            “Leave me alone, will you?” she bites back, taking a sip of her daiquiri and immediately regretting her decision to buy it in the first place. Cinnamon whiskey would’ve been a better option on a windy day like today, not frozen Peach Bellini and Margarita.

            “As you wish,” Killian replies idly, quieting his voice. Emma hears the way his fingers ghost over his novel and turns the page every so often. She feels her irritation subside as the minutes pass by and she re-reads over lines that have already become second nature to her.

            “Bit cold out for a daiquiri, isn’t it?” Killian’s smug voice snaps her out of her reverie.

            “Am I supposed to assume that you have coffee in your own daiquiri cup?” She snaps and looks up at him. She’s surprised to see that his irritation seems to have dwindled as well. Either that, she guesses, or he’s decided to make the most of their respective stubbornness and forced company.

            “No, I was just making an observation. What flavor did you get?” He asks and she narrows her eyes at him for a split second before answering him.

           “Peach Bellini mixed with Margarita. What about you?”

           “Mardi Gras Mambo,” he replies, and she can’t help the smile that forms on her face in response to the fact that his toothy grin is tinged red with daiquiri residue.

           “So you’re a rum guy?” She asks, starting to sit up.

           “Did you expect me to be fond of Everclear?” he asks sarcastically, downing what’s left of his cup in one sloppy gulp, before he slides to the left and pats the spot he made, giving Emma a sliver of space to recline against the ancient oak tree.

           “No, I guess not,” Emma answers, unable to stop the snicker that she emits as red, sticky daiquiri mix dribbles down his stubble-clad chin. “Why are you out here?” she asks, now situated a little too close for comfort next to him, but against the tree and where she wanted to be in the first place.

           “I’m celebrating,” he says rather bitterly, making Emma raise her eyebrows incredulously in accordance with his tone.

           “Doesn’t seem like a very happy celebration,” she offers matter-of-factly, shaking her head and declining his offer to share the wool blanket he had just taken out of his backpack.

           “It’s an anniversary of sorts,” he replies with such finality in his voice that Emma knows better than to prod him further about it. “What about you?” he asks her instead.

           “I talked to my mother today,” Emma answers, her voice thick and full of daiquiri.

           “I take it that’s a bad thing,” Killian responds, and Emma can feel his clear gaze trying to unravel her layers, trying to figure out why talking to one’s mother would be such a bad thing.

            “Absolutely,” Emma nods.

            “You don’t get along with her?” Killian asks tentatively, testing the waters and trying to gauge just how far she’d let him inside her emotional walls. Not that he deserved any entry, Emma thought, what with the fact that he just shot down me trying the same tactic on him mere seconds ago.

    “No, she’s a nightmare,” Emma answers him nonetheless, not thinking twice about the fact that he was practically a stranger, and she was figuratively dumping her purse out in his lap and inviting him into her problems. “She’s so overbearing, I can never have a civil conversation with her. She has this knack of riling me up,” Emma finishes breathlessly, her tone cloaked in vehement irritation one again.

            “Well, at least you have a mother to rile you up,” Killian responds solemnly, yet with his arms crossed against his chest once again.

            “What?” Emma asks him dumbfounded, incredibly perplexed at that being his response. That is, until she remembers something that Elsa had told her weeks ago and how Liam had lost his mother when he was thirteen. For some odd reason, Emma hadn’t put two and two together back then, what with Killian and Liam having such different personalities that she more often than not forgets they’re related, and let alone brothers. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

            “It’s quite alright, Swan. You had no reason to know,” Killian mumbles quietly, his gaze fixed on the smaller, freckled, and comforting hand that rested on his forearm.

            “I still feel like an insensitive asshole,” Emma adds self-deprecatingly. Honestly, how could she not feel that way? She just spent a good minute bashing her mother to a guy who had lost his as a child.

            “Don’t,” he grins at her—with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes—and covers her hand with his. “If your mother is anything like Dave’s father is, I completely understand your frustration.”

            “Was it recent? What happened to your mother?” She knew it wasn’t, but she asked anyways. She had been so rude to him earlier, the least she could do was hear him out. What if the anniversary he was celebrating had something to do with his late mother?

            “Not at all. She died when I was eight, she’d been sick for as long as I could remember.” Emma listens to him intently, feeling her eyes water slightly at the idea of him losing his mother at such a young age. She had not lost her mother, so she cannot begin to understand what it feels to have someone so close to you pass away. Hearing him talk about his own mother, though, resonates deep within her. She may not know what it’s like to lose a mother, but she knows what it’s like to feel so lost without the love of one. In that respect, she and Killian were similar. “Brain cancer,” he adds when he sees the question she wanted desperately to ask etched all over her face.

            “I’m so sorry.”

            “It’s not your fault,” he responds quietly, but the smile he gives her, once again does not reach his eyes. It makes her feel awful and she can’t help but to want to share something personal with him too. She had been nothing but rude since she arrived at the levee. Hell, she had been nothing but rude to him since she met him. Had he been super forward and borderline obscene at times? Yes, but he had also made sure she was okay when she fainted in the Quarter, stayed with her all night until she regained consciousness, and eased her out of her panic attack once she woke up. The least she could do was let him know that his wasn’t the only life that had started out rotten, that he wasn’t alone in feeling like he missed a crucial part of growing up: the unabridged love of a mother.

            “I was an accident,” she starts, picking at the slightly browning blade of grass next to her. Emma peeks a look at him, her bright green eyes unable to mask the fear that plagues them. She hasn’t told anyone this, not Elsa, not Ruby and certainly not even Graham. Killian looks at her intently, and he knows what she’s trying to do, but he doesn’t stop her, he merely listens to her shaky voice. “My mom was visiting my uncle George—Dave’s dad—in New York while he was in med school and she met my dad there. I don’t think either of them expected anything serious. They were attracted to each other and obviously they hooked up because, well, here I am,” Emma keeps talking, her voice trembling at the cathartic feeling brought upon by her words. “It was spring break and she was graduating in a couple of months, she had everything planned out except me. My grandparents insisted she marry my dad, but neither of them wanted that at the time. It didn’t matter though, in the circles my mother ran people talk, so they got married and when I was born they told everyone I was premature.” She is breathless, and she feels her heart beating faster by the second. She doesn’t know if it’s adrenaline or fear that keeps her on her tangent, but something propels her forward with her story. She didn’t know it then, it would hit her months from now, but what propelled her forward was not fear, nor adrenaline, but comfort. Comfort in Killian’s presence, his understanding, and the way he seemed to hang onto every word like every syllable she uttered was a breath of life he needed to sustain his own beating heart.

            “What happened after?” he asks her, his eyes wide and enthralled.

            “Well, they moved to Long Island after mom graduated, had me, and lived unhappily ever after,” she tries to answer him matter-of-factly, but her voice is a traitor and it shakes as she speaks. She doesn’t look at him, opting to twirl the browned blade of grass between her fingers instead.

            “Surely divorce was an option,” he offers, making Emma shrug in response.

            “Nah, they have a good life. It’s like a partnership; Mom turns a blind eye to the real reason Dad stays in Manhattan almost every night, and in return she enjoys being a socialite. And as for their daughter, well, she was raised by the housekeeper and then shipped off to boarding school the moment she was old enough to take care of herself,” Emma finishes with a dry laugh, but wiping the residual moisture on her cheeks, sometime in the middle of all this unruly tears started to stream down her face.

            “I’m so sorry,” he says, rummaging in his backpack and offering her a napkin.

            “It’s not your fault,” she echoes his earlier sentiment, taking the napkin and dabbing at her eyes.

            “Would it make you feel better if I said my father was a brute who got himself dishonorably discharged from Her Majesty’s Navy and then drank himself into an early grave five years ago?” Killian offers self-deprecatingly, wagging his eyebrows until he emits a smile from her lips. “That is of course, after he told me I would never amount to anything because being a writer would only leave me penniless.”

            “God,” Emma scoffs, “we’re quite the pair.”

            “Aye, that we most certainly are.”

            Emma smiles at him, and he returns it gracefully. They stay quiet for a few moments, with Emma not exactly sure how many minutes pass in their comfortable silence. She finds it reassuring, and amusing, how comfortable she feels in his presence. She lies on the cool, soft grass as the sun sets, her daiquiri cup empty and long forgotten beside her. The wind rustles softly against her skin, her eyelids closed but showcasing the muted oranges of the rapidly darkening sky. She feels his steady breathing beside her, the faint rustle of the oak leaves above her, the quiet sloshing of the imposing river below her.

            “How are things with Graham?” she hears him ask quietly with no spite in his voice, just simple curiosity.

            “They’re good,” she says, turning sideways and opening her eyes, her gaze fixed on his. “I’ve been meaning to ask you, are you okay with that?” Killian knits his eyebrows together, confusion etched on his wolfish features.

            “With your relationship?” he asks, “Aye, why wouldn’t I be?”

            “Well,” she starts softly, unsure how to phrase what she meant. “You weren’t exactly _subtle_ with your attraction towards me.” He laughs then, an amused and rather barking laugh.

            “Well that’s rather vain of you, Swan,” he tells her, his grin wide and the tips of his ears tinged pink, “Who says I was attracted to you?”

            “Killian, _come on_ ,” Emma groans exasperatedly. Of course, he’d make her work for it after she puts her foot in her mouth. “You flirted with me almost every chance you got!”

            “ _Och_ , aye. And I quite remember you telling me I’d flirt with anything that had tits and walked on two legs!” He retorts, his eyes alight with mirth.

            “You stayed with me in the hospital!” She counters, and he rolls his eyes dramatically.

            “Which I explained was in service of a _friend_ , i.e., your cousin,” he answers plainly and it’s her turn to roll her eyes dramatically. “Look, Swan, it doesn’t matter if I was attracted to you or not. You made your choice and I respect it,” he continues, his tone much more serious than before. “I respect you.”

            “So, you’re okay with it?” she asks again, just to be sure. He really is a nice guy and she’d hate to cause him any unintentional pain.

            “I am,” he nods, a smirk quickly emerging on his features. “You’re not the first girl to reject my advances, Emma. Trust me, I’ll survive.”

            Emma chuckles, shaking her head at his bravado. “That’s good to know,” she says.

            “Thank you,” he tells her, his head tilted towards her as he leans against the tree.

            “For what?”

            “For telling me your story,” he starts tentatively, “I know it’s not easy to let people in. I just want you to know that I don’t take it lightly.”

            Emma grins at him before she says, “I didn’t want you to think that I was ungrateful or that I’m a spoiled rich girl who doesn’t know what real problems are.”

            “I would never think that of you,” he says, his voice quiet and serious. “I know you’re not like that.”

            Emma glances deep into his crystalline eyes and now finds comforting that vast sincerity that once disconcerted her.

            “You barely know me,” she offers, worrying her lip between her front teeth, her voice matching is tone.

            “Something I’ve been trying to remedy for a while now, lass.” Killian winks at her before he stands up, starts grabbing some pebbles from the levee, and winds back his arm tossing the pebble as far as he can into the river.

            “What, like, you want to be friends?” Emma asks him dubiously from where she sits, his blanket now draped across her shoulders. She sits contentedly as she watches him hurl pebbles into the river, laughing when one barely makes it past the slope of the levee and into the water.

            “You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Killian laughs with her, walking back towards the tree and dropping stones into her lap, urging her to join him. She complies, hurling a flat white pebble out towards the murky water. “I rather enjoy your company,” Killian tells her before she throws another pebble out, farther this time, and he mumbles something about her having a good arm.

            “I enjoy yours,” Emma agrees with him, surprised at the validity of her statement. “Well, I enjoy it when you’re not being highly inappropriate.” Killian rolls his eyes and walks towards her, forcefully pulling on the blanket that was still draped around her shoulders and wrapping himself in it instead.

            “I can promise you that, as a gentleman, I’ll respect your choice and whatever we develop will be strictly platonic.”

            “Good,” she nods, her smile defiant.

            “Aye,” Killian says, more of a way to fill space and time rather than actually concurring with her assent. “Well, Swan, what say we make it official and we find a Halloween party to crash the week after next?” he asks her a few moments later, now that her back is to him and she’s too busy throwing sticks into the river to see how fast the current is going today.

            “I’d love to but I’m in a show that weekend,” she says absentmindedly, finding a particularly large stick and throwing it in the water and groaning when it slipped from view in the murky water.

            “Oh yeah?” Killian asks interestedly, handing her a slender stick—one that’s long and covered in white leaves. “What show?” he asks as she hurls it in, eyes alight with mirth as the white leaves bob up on the surface and she starts her stopwatch on her smartphone. It took the stick less than thirty seconds to disappear from view as the water carried it downstream.

            “The Rocky Horror Picture Show,” she answers him with a smile as she turns around to face him. “It’s on all Halloween weekend down in the Marigny.”

            “Is it an actual production or are you just lip-synching over the movie and I’m supposed to throw things on the stage?” He asks her suspiciously as he follows her back to their belongings and she digs in her backpack, handing him the script she was reading earlier.

            “It’s an actual production,” she responds, laughing at his skepticism. “I do it every year except this year I’m actually cast as a main character. I’ll be Janet.”

            “What Susan Sarandon’s character?” He asks looking up over the script and fixing wide clear blue eyes on her green gaze.

            “Yes,” she answers and he flips through the script until he finds the passage he was looking for.

            “So you’ll be practically naked at one point?” He asks with a raised eyebrow, showing her the highlighted portion of _Touch-a, Touch-a, Touch Me_.

            “Yes, I will,” she answers, biting back a grin, and making Killian groan as he hands her the script.

            “Not the most platonic thing you could have offered, Swan.” He says as he clutches his heart, his voice seemingly pained as he begins to fold the blanket.

            _He is such a big baby_.

            “Oh, shut up,” Emma replies hotly, stuffing her script back into her backpack and sitting down back against the tree. “You don’t have to go.”

            “Simmer down, lass!” Killian laughs, his arms raised high in mock surrender. “I’ll be there.” He slumps next to her as he takes out his phone, his fingers skimming over missed text messages received in the past hour. They fall into a quiet, easy rhythm again when Killian’s stomach rumbles besides her.

            “Somebody sounds hungry,” Emma laughs.

            “I’m rather ravenous, yes.” He says, his face pink enough for one to think that it’s flushed because of the chilly wind and not embarrassment. “Are you?”

            “Starving,” Emma responds.

            “Did you want to go get something?” He asks again, slipping his phone into his pocket and standing up, hand outstretched towards her.

            “With you?” She asks, cocking an incredulous eyebrow and making Killian glare stonily at her.

            “Friends _do_ get dinner together, Swan,” Killian taunts her, outstretching his hand even further down towards her.

            “I’m well aware of that,” Emma responds, lifting her arm and wrapping her fingers around his calloused palm. “Come on, I’ll drive.”

            They take Emma’s car over to the other side of Carrolton Avenue and have dinner at a Mexican restaurant that’s very popular with the students. They both order loaded nachos, his topped with chicken tinga and hers with pork carnitas. They talk animatedly during their meal, with Emma nearly sprouting soda from her nose after Killian made a particularly funny joke. She finds that they’re very similar, both sharing an obsession over dog breeds of any kind, festivals in which they get to stuff themselves with New Orleans cuisine—he loves the seafood festival, while she harbors a soft spot for the po-boy festival—Jazz Fest over Voodoo Music Fest, an embarrassing fixation on historical fiction, and Celebration in the Oaks.

            “We _have_ to go together this year. It always falls during my birthday,” Emma finds herself pleading, her cheeks red from laughing so much.

            “Aye, we’ll go Swan,” he nods, wiping his own tears of laughter away from his eyes. “What’s your favorite part?”

            “I love that section where all the big oaks are covered with white lights, and they surround you. It’s almost like magic,” she says.

            “I thought you didn’t believe in magic,” he teases.

            “I said ‘almost’, Killian,” she replies, shaking her head at him. “What about you? What’s your favorite?” She asks him, laughing as he growls after she steals a nacho from his plate. Which, incidentally, was _not_ flirting, just a means to taste the chicken she desperately wanted to try.

            “I’m a sucker for the train ride that takes you around the whole park, you get to see everything.”

            “Yes, that’s a good one,” she nods wholeheartedly, failing at swatting his hand away before he pilfers one of her own pork covered nachos. He winks at her before he pops the tortilla chip into his mouth.

            She eases back in her chair and they talk more, about everything and about nothing. It’s an easy rhythm to fall into. He tells a story and she listens, her eyes taking in the same amount of storytelling as her ears, watching intently as his hands emphasize his anecdote, and as his eyes light up with amusement. He talks about the kids he teaches, the Community Arts Project, and about being “sexiled” from his own apartment more often than not, now that Liam and Elsa have made things official. Emma hangs onto his words like life itself is being breathed into her lungs with every word he speaks, and when it’s her turn to talk, she grins as he leans back into his chair, his hands linked together at the base of his neck, his toothy smile lighting up his face. She tells him about the great lengths David would go to avoid Ruby in the days, weeks, and even months after they had hooked up during Mardi Gras. She tells him about growing up with her cousins, her escapades during her time in Connecticut, and meeting Elsa in boarding school. They talk so long that they lose track of time, the sun having set ages ago, and it’s not until Emma violently shivers in front of him that he suggests they head back to her car.

            “This was fun,” she turns to him after parking her car behind his.

            “Aye, it was,” he concedes as he reaches for the door handle. “We should do it again soon.”

            “Absolutely,” she nods.

            “Message me when you get home?” He asks her and she nods. “Brilliant,” he says before leaning over and pressing his lips against her cheek. “Goodnight, Emma,” she hears him say before her car shakes with the slamming of her passenger door.

            “Goodnight, Killian,” she mumbles, her hand palming her cheek in stunned silence. Shaking her head, she shifts her gearshift and releases the clutch, before propelling her car forward and driving back home. The lights are on in her apartment and it should strike her as odd, but she’s still so stunned over something so trivial that she doesn’t think twice about it.

            She finds Graham sitting on her couch and watching football— _soccer_ —on the TV, as she walks into her apartment. “Hey,” she says, knitting her eyebrows in confusion when he looks stoically at the television and barely shows signs of acknowledging her presence. “I thought you had work tonight?”

            “I managed to call off in the hopes of surprising you with dinner but you were nowhere to be found,” he answers dryly. Emma stands awkwardly by the loveseat, unaccustomed to this stoic, resentful version of her boyfriend. “Where were you?” he asks, his voice carrying a thinly veiled tone of possessiveness and anger.

            “I went out to dinner,” she offers meekly as she perches herself on the arm of the loveseat.

            “With who?” Graham asks, the possessiveness in his voice no longer thinly veiled but definitely out in the open for anyone to hear. Emma stares at him blankly, her gut telling her to lie.

            “With the cast. We had a good rehearsal today,” she says.

            “I called you,” he says with his eyes still glued resolutely to the screen in front of him.

            “My battery’s dead,” she lies again. In reality, her phone’s battery was very much alive and she knew he had called her, but Killian had been talking to her and she had decided to screen the call.

            “Where are you going?” He asks as she moves away towards her bedroom.

            “To bed, I’m tired.” That wasn’t a lie, she thinks as she walks into her bedroom and slams the door shut behind her, praying that Graham doesn’t follow. She takes her time getting ready for bed and releases a breath she doesn’t know she’s holding when she hears the television shut off and her front door slam shut.

            On the bedside table, her phone vibrates and she expects to find a text from Graham, but finds one from Killian instead. “ _Everything okay?_ ” he asks

            She holds her phone in her hand, uncertain of what to say. “ _Everything is fine_ ,” she resolves to write back, unsure if that was a lie or not.

            “ _I had fun tonight_ ,” he writes back.

            “ _I did too_ ,” she responds, knowing full well that that was the truth.

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_A/N: Thoughts? Concerns? Reviews to help me get back the soul I got sucked out of my body in the legal world?_

__-also, NO, she's not cheating on Graham anytime soon or any time at all, if that is something that concerns you lot :)_ _

  

   

 


	9. Chapter Eight

A/N: Finally an update! Hope you guys enjoy this chapter, it was actually going to be way longer than this but I felt like it was dragging on so you'll definitely get your money's worth in the next chapter but in the meantime here! have some character development...of sorts!

* * *

Chapter Eight 

            The October breeze feels cool and welcome on her face on the morning of the thirty-first, but it does nothing to lessen the nerves that are knotted in her stomach. Last night’s adrenaline had dissolved with the dawning light of a new day and the prospect of a new show. Emma mulls over her actions from last night: four missed lines that she had recovered by adlibbing quickly; three separate instances in which she forgot her dance steps; and one crack in her voice during one of her songs. Shaking her head, she knows that she’s most likely being too hard on herself. Despite the mishaps, her director had congratulated her on connecting with her already clumsy character during the course of the show, so at least there was a silver lining.

            She has two more shows to get through, one tonight and a matinee tomorrow evening. All of her friends are coming tonight, and she wishes that she was nervous because of their presence and not because she’s wary of how Graham will respond to her prancing around stage in her underwear. Although he had apologized for his behavior by taking her out for dinner, and once again apologized as he moved inside her later on that night, Graham had shown her a side of him that she wasn’t expecting. She gave in to him that night, though, chastising herself for the way she had acted, and that she at least owed him an apology for being late and the fact that she had screened his calls all afternoon. She felt that it had been her fault as much as his, stuffing away the instinct, the voice that belted out that Emma Swan was not one to be controlled by a man, and replacing it with a softer one that said: It’s okay, this is how it’s supposed to be.

            Emma drinks her mimosa as she waits for Elsa. Her friend had insisted on having brunch to catch up, and had picked a restaurant in MidCity—conveniently walking distance from where Emma knew Killian and Liam lived. The Rabbit Hole was a gleaming example of modern gentrification. It stuck out like a sore thumb in the surrounding neighborhood which was mostly wooden shotgun houses and what were once single family homes but had since been divided into apartments. This was the norm in post-Katrina New Orleans. If you search the web for the city, you’ll find yourself reading about shiny chrome countertops, kombucha, and duck confit po-boys in the menus, and imposing high-rises in neighborhoods that were once predominantly black and poor, with its original citizens fighting to keep their culture intact in response to the influx of a younger, “hipster” crowd.

            Emma scowls as she reads the menu, her glare directed at the hand-lettered typeface of the menu and the fourteen-dollar cost of a classic Eggs Benedict plate, failing to notice her friend walk up to her table out in the patio.

            “Hey, Em,” Elsa greets her, her voice breathless. Emma’s smile falters slightly as she sees Elsa in front of her. Had Elsa not greeted Emma first, she thinks she wouldn’t have recognized her friend in the first place. To say that Elsa looked different was an understatement. Her platinum hair, usually always tied up or plaited, framed her friend’s pale face in soft waves, the ends lightly skimming her shoulders. She looked relaxed, a red and deep green plaid shirt hanging loosely around her frame, her black leggings tucked into worn combat boots. A glow of blissful contentment emanated clearly from within Elsa, her usually cold and anxious demeanor nowhere to be seen.

            “Hey,” Emma says with a grin, “you look incredible.”

            A soft blush creeps up Elsa’s pale face, and she grins while she tucks a loose strand of platinum blonde hair behind her ear as she takes a seat in front of Emma.

            “Thank you,” she responds, biting her lip.

            “I take it things with Liam are going well?” Emma prods, knowing full well that Elsa did not possess the habit of talking about herself with ease.

            “Is it that obvious?” Elsa asks, perching her sunglasses on top of her head and focusing her embarrassed gaze on the menu.

            “I’ve never seen you look so blissful,” Emma nods, her hand outstretched to cover her friend’s. Elsa grins wider, a contented sigh racking her entire body as she looks up at Emma.

            “He’s perfect,” Elsa gushes, her voice giddier than ever before. “I feel like I’ve known him forever…like he understands me on a level I didn’t think was possible. It’s crazy, I’ve known him for a little over two months but I’ve never felt like this before. It’s kind of terrifying, actually, but with him I’m not scared at all.” She finishes flustered, her blush more prominent against her pale skin.

            “I love seeing you so happy,” Emma tells her friend, her hand giving Elsa’s a light squeeze.

            “What about you?” Elsa asks her brightly, “How are things with Graham?”

            “They’re wonderful,” Emma starts, wishing she could regurgitate the words and emotion Elsa had just demonstrated, but she’s nowhere near where Elsa and Liam are in terms of her relationship with Graham. “He works a lot but he’s very loving.” Emma offers lamely, her own blush creeping onto her skin, her chest flushed.

            “That’s good,” Elsa says reassuringly, an empathetic smile etched on her features. Emma smiles back, but stays silent, unsure of how to continue on such uneven footing. Elsa orders a mimosa carafe for the table, telling the waitress that they still needed more time to decide on what to order. Elsa ends up ordering an everything bagel with lox, capers, and cream cheese, while Emma ends up choosing to pay the fourteen dollar Eggs Benedict plate, switching it from original to “southern-style,” which really just meant that the English muffin was switched to a buttermilk biscuit and the Canadian bacon was switched to a sausage patty.

            Emma stays silent once again, her fingers swiftly gliding over her phone and responding to Graham’s text message hastily; she doesn’t want a repeat of the last time. Elsa senses her unease, and how could she not?

            They had met in ninth grade, two outsiders in a completely foreign boarding school. Elsa had just moved to the United States from Norway, after her father, who was a famed diplomat, took a spot in the United Nations; and Emma had caused enough trouble at her previous school that her parents had no option but to make her transfer to boarding school in Connecticut. The two girls had taken to each other almost immediately, with Emma’s fiery temperament molding perfectly with Elsa’s cool demeanor. The bond they shared, rooted in an imposing Connecticut boarding school, was deeper than any sorority on campus could ever offer.

            “Are you okay?” Elsa asks in her reformed English, her Norwegian accent still faintly present even after living in the United States for almost a decade.

            “I’m fine,” Emma says earnestly. “Just nervous about tonight.”

            Elsa smiles reassuringly, “You’ll do amazing.”

            “Everyone is going to be there,” Emma mumbles, trying to pin the blame on everyone’s presence and not the two distinctive people that were bothering her: Graham and Killian.

            “Killian is adamant in going, you know,” Elsa says, pouring more of the mimosa onto her glass as the waitress came over with their orders.

            Emma rolls her eyes, she could really do without him there. She still hasn’t completely forgiven him for what happened a week and a half ago.

            “You can’t still be mad at him, Emma,” Elsa chastises, sounding more like an older sister than anything else.

            “I’m still _very_ mad at him,” Emma responds stubbornly, and even though she knows she should just forgive him, she can’t bring herself to do so. In no case was her outburst against him reasonable—Killian had just been doing his job after all—but a wounded pride has never been known to listen to reason, in any case it tends to greatly outweigh it.

            Last Friday Emma had been out with Ruby and Mary Margaret, her friends desperate to have dinner followed by a girls’ night in. The plan had been to grab a bite to eat at Granny’s Diner—the restaurant and bed and breakfast that Ruby’s grandmother owned—and then head back to their apartment and watch _Hocus Pocus_ while they gorged on Halloween candy. Dinner had been wonderful, and Emma had relished in the company of her friends, unaware of just how much she missed their company now that she basically only hung out with her boyfriend most days. Emma and Mary Margaret had been successful in gauging what Ruby’s date with Victor consisted of, not letting single detail go uncommented. Their laughter had been infectious, filling up the entirety of the diner quickly as they all tried to catch up on weeks past, weeks filled with new love and new experiences.

            It had been raining when they had opted to leave the diner, when a notification buzzed in Emma’s phone. Instinctively she had opened her email, finding that her grade for Mills’ term paper draft had been posted. The last few weeks had been such a blur, that Emma had completely forgotten about even turning the draft in. It wasn’t her best work. She spent two days trying to haphazardly throw together some semblance of a draft, scouring Wikipedia and anything Google had to offer to make it look like she had done _some_ work on it. In hindsight, she should have probably spent more than two days on it. She should have taken herself out of Graham’s arms and into the library to do some decent research, but things were finally back to normal and whenever she wasn’t with him she was at rehearsals.

            Still, she had thought her work was average at least. She figured, she’d get at the very worst a C, and she’d just blow it out of the park with her final draft and average the grade out between the two grades. Nothing could have prepared her for the shiny, bolded D+ that she saw on her phone’s screen. She had stood there, stoic, her eyes attempting to focus on the grade Killian had given her. Surely, it had to be a joke.

            “Em? What’s wrong?” Mary Margaret had asked her when she noticed Emma was still rooted on the spot outside the diner.

            “He gave me a D,” Emma had answered breathless, still unbelieving.

            “Who gave you the D?” an inebriated Ruby had snickered before Mary Margaret shoved an elbow into her side.

            “Killian,” she murmured, still glaring at her phone urging the grade to magically change before her eyes. She had never gotten a D in her life. “He graded the draft to my term paper and he gave me a D+.” The more she had stared at her phone the faster her disbelief had quickly morphed into anger. Sure, she hadn’t worked excruciatingly hard on that paper, but it was a _draft_.

            A draft that was worth thirty-five percent of her final grade, and he almost failed her at it. Suddenly, she had a vision of her master’s degree waving goodbye at her, slipping away from her grasp and unraveling her life’s plan.

            “I’m going to go talk to him,” she had said aloud, zipping up her leather jacket and turning around to walk to her car.

            “Emma, wait!” Mary Margaret had called after her, “What about the movie night?”

            “I’ll be back soon, you guys start without me. I just…I _need_ to talk to him,” Emma had called back, sliding into the bug and slamming the door shut before Mary Margaret had a chance to answer her.

            She had driven up to his street almost in autopilot, the anger coursing avidly though her veins. She felt betrayed. Killian had gone on and on about wanting to be close to her, build a friendship with her, and he ended up doing this? Perhaps it was nonsensical of her to drive up to his street unannounced, with no rational plan as to what she was going to say to him, and instead fuel her strides with unabridged anger. This is why she didn’t want to be friends with him, this is why she didn’t want to let him get close to her. When it comes to Killian she has no control over her emotions, over her actions, over anything at all. When it comes to Killian all she can do is let instinct take over, let whatever emotion she has fuel her entire being. It’s both terrifying and completely unlike her.

            The wind had slapped cold against her face. The heavy rain droplets had soaked her clothes and had made the pavement glitter in front of her. Long, purposeful strides had carried her up the steps to his porch. Above her, the light had swung with the wind and the porch swing creaked idly next to her. She had knocked on the door so hard that her knuckles still tingled at the loss of contact. Emma had tried to compose herself but it was to no avail, she felt her breathing get shallower, her skin prickling with palpable irritation

            “Swan,” he had exclaimed surprised, his eyebrows raised high on his forehead, burrowed underneath the black fringe of his unruly hair. “To what do I owe this pleasure?” He had asked with a grin that faltered slightly when he saw the look on Emma’s face.

            “We need to talk,” she had answered him curtly, willing herself to reign in her anger.

            “Sounds serious,” he had muttered sardonically before casting an anxious glance back into his living room. “Swan, I’m quite busy right now though, so perhaps this could wait?” He had turned towards her but his foot slid in between the doorframe, propping the door open.

            “No, it cannot wait! Fucking up my GPA is pretty serious, Killian.”

            “Ah, I see the grades came out tonight.”

            “Yes, you’re very perceptive,” she had answered him, her arms crossed on her chest defensively. “What the hell Killian? I’ve never gotten a D in my _life_ ,” she had hissed, the grade was foreign and sounded dirty to her own ears. He simply stood there looking at her, his foot no longer propping the door open.

            “Look, Emma, I don’t think it’s proper for us to be talking about this right now,” he had told her, his hand scratching the back of his ear. “We should wait till Tuesday and talk about it during office hours, alright?”

            “Now you care about propriety?” Emma had asked him incredulous, stepping closer to him and poking him in his chest. “You didn’t seem to give a damn about that when you were too busy trying to get me into your bed!”

            “Oi! That’s not fair!” He had responded, his hand coiled tightly around her upper arm, leading her from the door and out of earshot from the living room. “Don’t you dare play that card, Swan,” he had warned and Emma could see the muscles in his jaw clench tightly, evidencing his frustration.

            “I’ll play whatever card I want, since you’re so adamant in ruining what little shot I have at a career!” She was incensed and somewhat nonsensical. She was adamant in getting a response from him— _a fucking explanation_ —as well as letting him _feel_ the anger she currently experienced.

            “Oh, for _fuck’s_ sake! If you were so concerned about that, you’d have sent in something _substantive_. All you sent was a glorified outline!” He had exclaimed loudly, his anger now matching hers.

            “I did not!” she had countered but her determined face fell at the incredulous look he had shot at her. “Fine, I could’ve done a better job. But, come on, Killian! You know I’ve been extremely busy with rehearsals! You could have given me some wiggle room, I thought we were friends!”

            “Aye, I am your friend, Emma, but I am also your educator,” he had snapped vehemently, his blue eyes boring deep into her own gaze. Not enough to have made her cower, but enough to have made her rethink coming up to him in the first place. “I’d appreciate it if you kept that boundary separate and _respect_ me as your educator.”

            “I know that!”

            “No, you don’t! You wouldn’t waltz up to your professor’s residence and bang on their door because they gave you a grade you don’t like!” He had told her, his voice raised slightly higher, the anger and frustration he felt towards her palpable. Emma had said nothing, having instead opting for silence rather than conceding to him. She had stared at him defiantly, her fists clenched on either side of her body as she had regarded him. His breathing was shallow and his eyes alight with a fire she had never seen before. He darted his tongue out, sliding it quickly along his lips, wetting them before he started again, his voice softer but still heated. “I knew that you were busy, but do you know how _disappointing_ it was to see what you had handed in? Not just as your educator, but as your friend?”

            Emma had stayed quiet, her ire steadily pulsating through her system. She didn’t want Killian to feel anything for her, not attraction and certainly not disappointment. The more she thought about it the more she came to the conclusion that coming here, knocking at his door had been the wrong choice.

            “Don’t pretend that you care about me,” she had scoffed derisively, her defense mechanisms—the ones that told her to attack before being attacked, to hurt before getting hurt—clicking into place automatically. She had crossed her arms against her chest as she watched him groan in frustration, his hand brought up to thread through his raven hair, and leaving it in a messier state than it was mere seconds ago.

            “I care about you,” he had said, his voice low but firm with conviction. “However, just because I’m your friend, doesn’t mean that I’ll coddle you.” He had stepped back, resting his back against the wooden wall behind him and had looked into her eyes, his gaze unrelenting and his breaths still shallow. Under different circumstances Emma would have been thankful for his comment, being coddled was not something that she had ever appreciated. The fact that he respected her boundaries and understood her independent nature, however, did not take away from the issue that the marks he had given her might jeopardize her acceptance into Tulane’s graduate program. She had a plan way before she ever met him, and she would be damned if his fixation with good form would derail her plan.

            “Do you realize what you did, though?” She had asked him, her voice wavering more than she intended it to. Killian had narrowed his eyes, his jaw clenching at her outburst, but didn’t he speak so she pressed on. “Do you realize that you jeopardized my GPA and with that my chance into getting in the Social Work program at Tulane all because you didn’t want to _coddle_ me?”

            “Oh, _stop_ making excuses and own up to your mistakes, Emma!” He had lashed out, his tone matching hers. She knew she had pressed a button too deep, crossed the line too far by blaming him for a mistake that she couldn’t deny was due to her own fault. “ _You_ were the one that chose to procrastinate instead of doing the research you were supposed to! _You_ were the one that handed in a cock-up instead of a well thought out draft!” He had stepped closer to her now, so close that she felt his hot breath on her cheek as unmistakable as she felt the wooden pillar against her spine. “If you got that grade, it’s because _you_ deserved it.”

            Emma’s chest had risen up methodically. Her anger had seeped down to her very core, corroding any reason on its way down and her nails had left small half-moon indentations on the palm of her hands. She hadn’t missed the way his gaze fell on her lips for a millisecond before locking itself back on her eyes, always searching for meaning behind them, and trying to pry her away from the walls she surrounded herself in. She would’ve stepped back if she could, but he had cornered her against the pillar. Part of her wanted to slap the disappointed look on his face, a look that told her that he regarded her as a petulant child and not his equal. While on the other hand, part of her wanted to thread her fingers through his mussed up raven hair and tug down in order for her to cover his mouth with hers in a primal, bruising kiss that would leave both of their worlds turned upside down.

            “I should go,” she had said quietly but not demurely. She was angry with him and she wanted him to know that.

            “ _Emma_ ,” he had almost growled at her, his voice paradoxical, both pleading and aggravated at the same time. “We can’t leave it like this,” he said again, “we need to talk it out.”

            She knew she couldn’t stay, not when he made her feel so much that she felt as if she had no control over her senses around him.

_She shouldn’t have come here in the first place._

            “I think you’ve said enough,” she had said, pressing her hands against his chest and ignoring the heat that spread through them as she pushed him away. She didn’t look at him as she had trotted down the porch steps, but she felt his gaze on her back as she had walked away. She hadn’t noticed the heavy splatter of the rain against the pavement, the weather having worsened as quickly as her mood had done. Still, she had gotten into her car, waited for it to warm up before she made her way out of MidCity and back to Uptown, where Mary Margaret and Ruby awaited her in the apartment.

            The next week and a half had gone by rather smoothly, with Emma’s only worry being successfully avoiding Killian on Tuesdays and Thursdays. She wasn’t really mad at him anymore, mostly she was angrier at herself for berating him at his doorstep instead of being rational. She had always prided herself on how reasonable she was. She was stubborn and hotheaded, yes, but still reasonable.

            “Swan,” he had smiled at her tentatively when she arrived at the classroom that next Tuesday. She didn’t respond, instead choosing to walk right past him with her eyes glued to the floor. “Is that how it is then?” he had asked, an edge to his voice. “You’re just going to refuse to speak to me?” he continued as she had sat down in her assigned seat and propped open her laptop. She knew he had made to speak to her again, but Mills had entered the classroom at that very moment and he had no choice but to stay silent.

            Halfway through the class he shoves a Post-It towards her, the familiar yellow note sticking to her desk.

            _Are you really still mad at me?_

            No, she wasn’t mad at him anymore, she was ashamed. Ashamed at her actions, at the way she had spoken to him, and at the way she had let him crawl so deep under her skin that she had lost all sense of propriety. She wanted to tell him that. Wanted nothing more than to go back to the levee and feel comfortable with him again, but she was stubborn and headstrong, and apologizing had never been her strong suit. Telling him would be admitting to herself that she had let him in. He cared about her, he had _told_ her so, but what was more terrifying was that she cared about him too. In the two months that she had known him, he had slowly but surely started to peel off her layers, gotten to know her, and had made her feel comfortable in his presence.

            And everyone knows that in the uncharted territory between being strangers and being friends—or being more, but she didn’t want to think about that, not with Killian at least—lies a huge cloud of doubt, of unknown, and of possible heartbreak. And when Killian looks at her trying to gauge her motives and understand her demeanor, well, she’d be a fool to let herself choose the possibility of heartbreak.

            She could have taken the high road and told him that she wasn’t angry, but instead she decided to be petty, took the Post-It, crumpled it in her fist, and let it fall to the floor.

            Killian didn’t bother her for the next two weeks and, in true Emma fashion, she chose to hurt before getting hurt.

 

            Emma had spent the rest of the month rehearsing, pleading Mills for extra credit, and fighting with Graham. She was stressed with the impending performances, juggling her attempt on _some_ research on the LaBoeufs as well as homework for the rest of her classes, and she felt positively suffocated by Graham at times with his constant texting and even more constant presence at her apartment. She was a crap girlfriend, and she knew it going into the relationship. Emma had always loved her independence, loved the ability to do her own thing without having the need to report to someone. Because that’s what being in a relationship with Graham felt like, almost as if she had a leash and he wouldn’t let her stray too far. So, when Elsa asks her how her relationship was going, she simply settles that it’s “wonderful,” because her pride, her childish pride that was so desperate to get this right, wouldn’t allow her to say otherwise.

            That night the show goes virtually without a hitch with Emma landing her lines, nailing her steps, and her voice never wavering unless the song called for it. The house was packed and she sweats profusely under the harsh lighting but the stage feels like _home_ , and the nerves from earlier in the day had evaporated with each passing minute. It’s exhausting, and by the time the show is over she really doesn’t want to go out with her friends as much as she just wants to take a shower, take her Xanax, and fall into another dreamless sleep. But it’s Halloween, and her friends came all the way down to the Marigny to pay to see her sing and dance about sexual awakenings, so she concludes that going out is the least she could do for them.

            Backstage, Emma slips out of her corset, practically tears off her fishnets, and hangs up the feather boa before slipping into her Halloween costume—Ruby had picked out rather offensively short version of Princess Leia’s outfit from _Episode IV: A New Hope—_ and having Leo twist her long blonde hair into two buns on either sides of her head.

            It doesn’t take her long until she finds her group of friends and Graham, who had been sitting with them. They practically ambush her with compliments and hugs as they greet her outside the theater.

            Everyone is there: Mary Margaret and David, Elsa and Liam, Ruby and Victor—funny how just over two months ago they had been at The Uptown, actively searching for an end to their singlehood and now everything is different. As she hugs Graham last, she sees Killian move cautiously towards the group, a blinding grin on his face and a petite blonde dressed as Tinkerbelle flanking his side. Emma wishes that she could deny that her heart had practically leapt into her throat at the same time a barrel of lead had settled deep inside her stomach at the sight of him, but that would be lying.

            “You were brilliant, Emma.” Killian says as he steps in front of her, dressed unmistakably as Han Solo.

            _Go figure._

            “Thank you,” she responds awkwardly as she takes the bouquet of white lilies he hands her.

            They stand there awkwardly and in silence as the crowd disperses around them, trickling out onto the street. Though it feels like an eternity, it takes her a second to feel the evident pressure of Graham’s hand on the small of her back, an anchor that ties her back into reality after being lost in a sea of calming blue. Killian must sense the same—a distinguishable grip on his upper arm by the blonde that flanked him—as he turns to her and then back to Emma.

            “Emma, this is Christine Bell,” he tells her, finally permitting Emma to put a real name to the blonde. Emma takes the dainty hand of Christine into her own and shakes it firmly, still at a loss for words. A myriad of questions start flying across her mind, trying to make sense of the unexpected situation. She wasn’t jealous (she _wasn’t_ ). She just wanted to know exactly who this girl was. Was Killian dating her? How long had they known each other? Was it purposeful that she was basically the knockoff version of Emma? She looked older—around twenty-six—and nice enough. But still, who was she? She definitely wasn’t the girl that Ruby had identified as his girlfriend months ago.

            Emma was taken aback at her extroverted demeanor. It was almost as if the dainty, short New Zealander was only capable of feeling one emotion at a time and clearly, excitement was the only feeling her petite body could handle. She rapidly started congratulating Emma on her performance, saying that she had been looking forward to the stage production of _Rocky Horror_ for _months_ , and that she was so happy Killian knew her because it finally gave him the opportunity to ask her out.

            Apparently, asking Christine out was something that he had wanted to do for months. Which, you know, is funny considering that he wanted to ask Emma out as well. Not that that’s illegal or frowned upon, mind you, it simply just puts a sour taste on Emma’s mouth. The blonde overwhelms her, and Emma desperately wants to go home, the mixture of Graham’s lack of enthusiasm when she had gone to meet everyone after the performance and Killian’s unexpected date was enough to put a damper on her night. She wishes that it didn’t, but she doesn’t deny that she feels out of place surrounded by a heap of happy couples, and she’s stuck with her rather unexpectedly taciturn boyfriend.

            The drive to Uptown is silent for the most part, with Graham’s hands wound tightly around the steering wheel. Emma has half a mind to ask him what’s wrong, because she knows something is bothering him, but she doesn’t want to shed light on the situation. Even less considering that they’re not alone, what with Mary Margaret and David chatting amorously in the backseat. As they drive somberly to 80s soft rock, orange streetlights flicker above them, making the rain droplets on the window shield glitter happily above them as it takes all of twenty minutes to arrive at their destination, to a new bar called _Barcade_. It was a fairly new bar, nestled near the college campuses in Uptown. The premise was simple, a place where adults could be kids again, and since college is the place where kids struggle to be adults, _Barcade’s_ location was ideal. Once inside, they find the place covered wall to wall with classic arcade games—Emma would definitely be hitting up _Street Fighter_ first—air hockey, skee-ball, even several big screen TVs with video game consoles. There’s a fully stocked bar to the left, and two food trucks parked in the patio.

            Emma instinctively steers clear of Killian _and_ Graham, thinking that a surefire way to prevent an unwanted confrontation with either is to avoid them completely. Was that childish? Absolutely. All she knows is that she doesn’t want to hang around her boyfriend in a sour mood, nor does she want to hang around the sickeningly sweet sight of Christine Bell practically throwing herself at Killian.

            Emma is not jealous. _She’s not._

            She _is_ , however, desperately in need of a drink

-/-

            Hours later, Emma finds herself having fun in the midst of an air hockey battle with Ruby. The leggy brunette is good at the game, with an almost feral determination in her offense, but Emma is better and after losing the game twice in a row, Ruby bows out and Graham steps in.

            “Are you ready to lose, Humbert?” Emma teases him as she places the puck in place.

            “First to seven points, Emma?” He counters, lifting an eyebrow and crouching on his side of the table.

            “You’re on,” she nods before hitting the puck and it ricochets against his left hand corner, almost getting into the slot but he catches it, hitting it back.

            “You’ve been avoiding me,” he says pointedly, his blazing hunter green eyes locked on hers.

            “I’d rather not talk to you while you’re in a foul mood,” she bites back, her tone so forceful that he misses her hit the puck with her mallet and sending it straight through the slot on his side of the table. _One_.

            “Haven’t you stopped to ask why I’m in a foul mood?” he asks her gruffly, bending down to get the puck in order to place it back on the table.

            “Is that my job?” She asks him, expertly swerving her mallet on the smooth surface so when she hits the puck it goes straight into the slot on his side of the table once again. _Two._ “I’m here to have a good time, not play therapist.”

            “Humor me?” Graham asks, his tone unable to mask his annoyance, and Emma foresees that he’ll be a sore loser.

            “Fine,” she shrugs as he manages to finally get a point in, egging on his annoyance. “Why are you in a bad mood?” she asks.

            “Well, it might be because I feel disrespected,” he snaps and Emma manages to ricochet the puck into his goal again. _Three._

            “Care to elaborate?” Emma asks lamely, not wanting—or needing—Graham to elaborate at all. She knew that he was going to pick a fight with her about her role tonight, expected it, even.

            “Did you even stop to think how uncomfortable it would be for me, as your boyfriend, to see your scantily clad self grind against an half-naked man?” He asks, nearly gloating as he makes another score against her.

            “No, I didn’t,” she answers, unwilling to suppress the grin on her face as she scores again. _Four._ “Considering that I got cast before we even got together. And, for the record, Rocky is a flamboyant homosexual in real life so I’m not sure why you’re so worried.”

            She shrugs again and immediately she knows that her indifference has struck a nerve.

            “Because you didn’t even consider telling me, Emma!” Graham retorts loudly and she flinches. He’s never raised her voice at her like that. “I was sitting there like a bleeding idiot!” Emma flinches back as he scores another point against her, her hands instinctively coming up to shield herself as the puck nearly ricochets against the border and straight towards her face.

            Now _he_ struck a nerve.

            “Would you like me to be in a production of Chekov’s _Three Sisters_ instead, Graham?” She asks him scathingly, her elbow nearly snapping off at the sheer force she had hit the puck with her mallet. _Five._

            “Aye, I would if it meant that you get to keep your clothes on,” he bites back, his disdain the reason he manages to score again.

            “Tell me, have you stopped to think if I’m comfortable with you working midnight shifts at the busiest hospital in what many people call the murder capital of the United States?” Emma asks her voice wavering slightly and _for once_ , she’d love it if her voice wouldn’t betray her and make her sound like an unstable, sniveling child. “Because I’m not, but I respect it because it’s what you love to do. Being on stage is what I love to do, why can’t you respect that?” She finishes, scoring again. _Six._

            “That’s not the point,” he deflects, his anger subsiding slightly and Emma senses him shutting down instead. _No, that’s worse_ , she thinks, _angry I can deal with, quiet I cannot._

            “Then what is the point, Graham?” She asks him again, hitting the puck one last time.

            _Seven._

He stands up to leave then—once the game ends at 7-4—not before he lets the mallet fall forcefully on the table. Emma follows him hastily, this is exactly why she was avoiding him, a confrontation like this was the last thing she needed tonight. He goes back to their table and yanks up his brown leather jacket from the seat.

            “Babe, where are you going?” she asks breathlessly, after she had struggled to keep up with his longer strides.

            “Home,” he says gruffly as he slips his jacket on and fixes the collar.

            “Graham, please don’t leave,” Emma finds herself pleading, her hands circling around his upper arm. “Come on, let me…let me fix this.”

            “Emma, I want to go home,” he says quietly, yanking his arm out of her grasp. “It’s clear to me that you don’t care about me as much as I care about you.”

            “I _care_ about you!”

            “No, you don’t.”

            “Yes, I do,” She says following him out of the bar and onto the street where he had parked his car. “Please don’t go like this.”

            “Look, Em, you’re not used to being someone’s girlfriend and I get that, but we’re supposed to make decisions together, as a team.” Graham says dejectedly, victimized, and making her feel more like a sniveling, petulant child more than ever.

            “I want that,” she promises, her eyes wide and the familiar tingling on her nose she feels when she’s about to cry. “I’ll do that.”

            “I just want you to understand where I’m coming from,” he tells her seriously.

            “I’m trying,” Emma answers truthfully.

            “You can’t just make decisions without me,” he says, his hands deep in his pockets. “I had that mini-break planned for us and you went off and had to go sign yourself up as chaperone for that fieldtrip.”

            “I needed the extra credit,” Emma tries to explain, but she clothes her mouth as soon as he raises his hand to refrain her from doing so.

            “You should’ve consulted with me first,” he says sullenly, once again pulling his arm away form where she had tried to wind her hands around. “And if my shifts bothered you that much, you should’ve trusted me enough to tell me about it.”

            “I’m sorry,” she offers lamely.

            “Sorry isn’t going to cut it tonight, Em.”

            Emma doesn’t notice the swirling cold wind around her as she watches him walk away. They’ll probably have to grab an Über on the way back, but she’s too focused on how yet again, she’s fucked up one of the few good things in her life. Once again, she’s standing on the receiving end of someone walking out on her. The wind gathers speed around her, the music thumps loudly behind her but all she can do is stare at the empty space where Graham had just disappeared. Surely this wasn’t it for them, was it? Yes, he annoys her from time to time but she doesn’t want to _break_ _up_. At first she hadn’t noticed the tears that had streamed down her face, but the fierce night wind has dried them up in their tracks, making them palpable, a solid reminder of what just happened.

            “Emma?” a voice calls behind her and she closes her eyes in frustration because the last thing she wants is for Killian to see her like this.

            “What?” she asks him without turning around, her voice thick but deceptively flat. She sighs when she feels his hand—his warm, comforting hand—on her shoulder, gently turning her towards him. If the mascara that is undoubtedly dried onto her skin after running side by side with her tears surprises him, he doesn’t mention it, and she’s grateful for that.

            “Are you alright?” he asks softly, and they both know it’s a rhetorical question. She’s not alright, and that is clear and bright as the sun on a cloudless day.

            “I’m fine,” Emma answers him gruffly, instantly regretting stepping away from him once his warmth dissipates from her surrounding.

            “You’re not,” he says pointedly.

            “Killian could you just leave me the hell alone?” she snaps. She doesn’t want caring right now, she doesn’t want to be the damsel in distress for him. She just had a fight with her boyfriend, things like this _happen_ all the time and she doesn’t need anyone to pity her or pick up the pieces for her.

            “No,” Killian answers simply, crossing his arms defiantly against his chest.

            “Goddammit, Killian, what do you _want_ from me?” Emma asks him hoarsely, her voice exasperated as she stomps her right foot on the glistening pavement.

            “I want you to stop pushing me away! And for fuck’s sake, let me help you, lass.” He matches her exasperated tone perfectly, and forgoes any propriety by stepping closer to her, tucking an errant strand of blonde hair behind her ear. “Because I care about you and I _want_ to help you,” he says softer this time, his blue eyes locked intently on hers and his gaze so sincere it’s almost raw.

            “I don’t need help,” she counters stubbornly, but doesn’t make to step away from him.

            “You need a ride home,” he grins and she sighs deeply. She _did_ need a ride home.

            “What about Christine? It’s not good form for you to abandon your date in some random bar.” Emma uselessly tries to point out another excuse, to which Killian gives her a pointed look before raising his eyebrows incredulously. Internally, she chastises herself once she notices that’s exactly what just happened to her.

            “She’ll be fine, she’s found her work friends in there.” Killian answers her with a smile that she can only describe as roguish. “Besides,” he starts, moving closer to her as if he’s about to tell her a secret, “she’s not nearly as important to me as you are.”

* * *

 

_A/N: I don't know when the next chapter will be up because finals are just around the corner and i have to start studying for that BUT i'll most likely see you lovelies in December! Reviews feed my legal muse and make sure that I'm able to continue on with my legal education_


	10. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: HAPPY ALMOST CHRISTMAS HARRY! Finally an update! Thank you all for being so patient with me as I finished up with finals! To make up for being away for so long i wrote more than twice as much than I usually do—also, finally got back to some of the actual story and not just plot filler so yeah. . This chap is mostly cs (like 99%) I hope you like it don’t be shy and let me know what you think!

Chapter Nine

 

 

            Killian doesn’t stay.

            Instead, he drives her home and drops her off, and Emma is thankful. He asked no questions as they maneuvered through the countless one-way roads that make Uptown, New Orleans somewhat of a nightmare to drive through, until they reached her apartment—which was great because she really wasn’t in the mood to divulge anything. She didn’t want to talk about Graham, and she didn’t want to talk about the sting of his words nor the complete bleakness she felt when he walked away from her. Though Graham had been right, she hadn’t the slightest idea how to be someone’s girlfriend, that didn’t mean she wasn’t willing to try her best at it. But once again, her best had apparently not been enough.

            During the drive Killian looked over at her a couple of times, his brow furrowed underneath the slopping unruly black fringe that had made its way down to his forehead again. Emma could hear the intake of his breath, the telltale sign that he planned on saying something to her but ended up thinking better of it, and staying silent instead. The rain pattered roughly against the windows and the darkened roads glittered before them as water droplets ricocheted off the pavement. Emma rested her forehead against the window, smiling sadly at the comfort the cooled glass placed on her skin. It was hard to think about anything but than the notion that she had failed again, that happiness just wasn’t in her cards.

            She wanted to cry, but she wouldn’t.

            Emma was wallowing in self-pity, she knew this, but it was hard not to. Looking out of the window, she saw the familiar mansions that lined St. Charles Avenue, all of them decked in their Halloween best—some with giant spiders crawling on the face of the building, the classic one with at least fifty different skeletons showcasing different puns (this year political), and all of them glittering in orange, purple, and green lights. She didn’t know why he took St. Charles, since going straight down Freret would have taken them to Arabella much quicker than on a main avenue notorious for far too many traffic lights, but she couldn’t help to think that he wanted to cheer her up with the decorations. They were, after all, as similar, as grand, and as intricate as the decorations in Celebration in the Oaks. Her thoughts were confirmed, however, when she had turned to give him an inquisitive look and was rewarded with a wink and a knowing smile.

            For the first time since before they had left _Barcade_ , Emma grinned back.

            Their goodbye started out awkward and for a moment they just sat there in the car—unmoving, and silent with the unspoken agreement that she’d stay in the car until the harsh rain settled down to a drizzle. The sudden silence left Emma biting the inside of her lip anxiously, unaccustomed to the sudden surge of gratitude that flowed through her entire being. Killian was there for her, genuinely concerned about her wellbeing, and willing to do something as simple as changing routes midway to her apartment just to see if he could lift her spirits, and put a smile on her face. She found it funny how back in August she completely abhorred the man in front of her, but come November (as it had officially been for roughly two hours), she finds that he’s crept up his way to her, woven into her life as the most honest man she’s ever met. Annoying and a little too flirty for his own good, yes, but genuine and caring nonetheless.

            “Do you need me to come up?” He asked her, blue eyes boring worrisomely into hers. “Will you be alright?”

            “I’ll be fine,” Emma answered him, and he only relaxed his tense shoulders when she shot him a lopsided smile. “I fought with my boyfriend, it’s not the end of the world.”

            “No, I suppose it isn’t,” he responded quietly, his eyes closed as he leaned back into his seat, his arms crossed behind his head as the rain made no semblance of stopping. “Just don’t be afraid to message me if you need anything.”

            “I won’t,” Emma responded, her eyes trained on her phone and almost willing for Graham to text her _something_. But, there was nothing, just a brightly lit screen that quickly distorted into a mix of muted whites and blues as her emotions got the best of her and her eyesight blurred with tears that threatened to fall.

            Emma breathed in to compose herself, but her shaky exhale betrayed her.

            “Hey,” Killian’s soft voice started as his warm calloused hand covered her own, “everything is going to be alright, Swan.”

            Emma shrugged, unwilling to look at him or even blink for that matter.

            “I promise,” he continued with a firm squeeze of his hand around hers.

            Emma rolled her eyes, and lifted her gaze toward him in exasperation. “You can’t promise me that,” she said thickly, “I think I really fucked up.”

            “You didn’t,” he said firmly and his free hand stretched towards her to wipe a tear that had finally rebelled and had rolled down her cheek. “It’s just a petty fight, Em,” he continued, a reassuring smile on his face, his pupils wide and dilated in the darkness. “You’re bound to have countless more after tonight.”

            “I hope not,” she groaned, her head resting against the headrest with a thump. “I hate fighting.”

            “You could’ve fooled me with that, lass,” Killian chuckled, his wheezy laugh still as silly and endearing since the first time she had heard it.

            “Shut up,” she laughed with him, sobering up only when she noticed that her hand was still covered by his. Emma withdrew her hand slowly, even though she wanted nothing more than just to leave it there in his warm grasp. His hand twitched slightly, and when she turned to look at him, his blue eyes shined with unease. And perhaps it was the earlier sense of gratification that seemed to have resurged through her entire being, or perhaps it was the sudden realization that somehow Killian had been bringing down her emotional barriers slowly but surely by getting to know her, by treating her with respect, by empathizing with her, and by not shying away from her as her stubbornness—here acting as roughly patched cracks in her emotional armor—melted away to reveal raw vulnerability. And that’s how you know you trust someone, right? When you take away the filters that constantly mask your persona and start to reveal your fears, your shaky confidence, and your true vulnerability with the hopes that they won’t shy away. And surely, when they don’t shy away, the only reasonable thing for you to do is to let them in, right?

            Emma resolved to do just that. With tears still brimming and biting her lip, she surged forward in order to wrap her arms around him, her face pressed tightly against the side of his head. It took him a moment to register the fact that she was hugging him, but soon enough his own arms circled around her torso, strong, firm, and comforting.

            “Thank you,” she mumbled against his hair. She breathed deep in his embrace, taking in the scent of his cologne, a pleasant combination of rugged and clean.

            “For what?” he asked as he pulled away from her, his black pupils so dilated in the darkness that they threatened to engulf his blue irises completely. His breath felt hot on her skin, they were altogether too close to each other and her mind traveled back to when they were in a similar situation and she was trying to gauge his character because she couldn’t figure him out, couldn’t read him. She still didn’t know if she had been successful in gauging his character, but as her heart raced and beat thunderously against her ribcage—scared, frantic beating that responded to how raw and exposed his sincerity made her feel—she knew she was beginning to.

            “Sticking around?” she asked, exhaling a nervous and shaky breath, her green eyes wide and hopeful. And there it was, her fear exposed for the world to see. Emma didn’t have the heart to tell him that what she actually feared. Instead, she chose to allude to it and she did that by telling him how grateful she was that he stuck around by her, when so many hadn’t. He knew she was guarded—around him, around her cousin, around her closest friends—and now she hoped that he knew why. It’s not easy to let people in when you’re afraid everyone is going to end up leaving you, and it’s terrifying to think that those who end up staying don’t care enough about you to realize you matter. No option is better than the other, either way you feel like nothing.

            Killian cocked his head to the side, looking inquisitively at her, and she could basically hear the cogs turning in his mind as his jaw clenched slightly at the same time his fingers pressed faintly against the doughy skin covering her torso.

            “I have no intention of leaving,” he told her, eyes blazing, “unless you wish me to do so.”

            “Good,” she said and for the second time that night, Emma grinned.

            It had rained all night, and not once did the torrential downpour ease down into a drizzle. After bickering for five minutes about whether Killian should escort her to her front-door and whether Emma should take his umbrella with her if she wasn’t going to let him walk her to her door, Killian ended up surrendering his gallant requests, instead thrusting a hoodie towards her.      

            “At least wear this so you don’t get drenched,” he had told her, his arms folded against his chest. Emma had taken the blue gray hoodie from his hands, throwing him an exasperated sigh and an eye-roll for good measure as she unzipped it and put it on. Much like she had had to ignore the churning in her stomach when he turned on his seat and reached far back into his back seat to grab the hoodie—leaving her struggling to avert her eyes from the way his white Henley rose up his midriff, exposing a toned lower abdomen and a prominent pelvic muscle that plunged deep into the waistline of his low-hung jeans—Emma had struggled to ignore the way his scent seemed to engulf her senses as she surrounded herself with the soft fabric.

            “Is this better?” she had asked him haughtily, an eyebrow raised questioningly on her forehead as she zipped up the front of the hoodie. Killian had merely leaned back against the door, one hand draped lazily on the steering wheel and the other threading his fingers through his dark hair, and smirked at her.

            “Aye, lass,” he had leaned forward, grabbed the hood, and smirked, if possible, even wider as he tugged it upwards and over her head. “I rather like you in my clothing,” he had said, once again dragging his tongue on his lower lip in that almost profane way Emma hated to admit prompted her to clench her thighs together and question her sanity.

            “You’re an idiot,” she had responded and his only response is to move closer to her still, his arms going around her body and reaching behind her. Emma sat there rigid as she took him in. Killian wasn’t looking at her, he was much more concerned on the task behind her, his eyebrows knit together in concentration. As Emma took in how his damp hair fell onto his face, she tried to convince herself that the mood between them hadn’t shifted yet again, plunging into uncharted territory, and she sighed in relief when she heard him pull the lock on the door.

            “The automatic lock is jammed,” he explained, his voice strained and flustered. “I now have to resort to jimmy the bloody lock and handle every time I need to open the fucking door.”

            Emma nodded absentmindedly as she tried to focus on anything but how close he was to her, on anything but how his warm breath blowing close to her neck made the hairs on her skin stand on edge, and instead wondering if the reason he sounded so flustered was due to his blatant intrusion into her personal space, wondering if he was just as flummoxed by her very presence as she was by his. As he straightened up, she had to bite down a grin once she saw his eyes widen slightly, seemingly unprepared to have her face so close to his.

            “Sorry, love,” he mumbled gruffly, “I didn’t mean to get so close.”

            “It’s okay,” Emma breathed, her mind and judgment very much clouded. “Good night, Killian.”

            “Goodnight, Emma,” Killian told her, a soft smile on his face as he gazed deeply into her eyes. Her mind was still clouded as she turned in her seat and made way to open the door he still held open, his arms still around her. She stilled for a second once her hand covered his in order to take hold of the door handle. Unexpectedly, she found herself unable—no, better yet, found herself _not wanting_ —to leave his side.

            “Wait, what are you doing tomorrow?” She asked, her gaze meeting Killian’s quizzical brow at how quickly she had turned around. Killian’s arms were still posed at either side of her, she tried not to focus on the lean muscle that jutted out of his forearm, but it was there and she wasn’t blind. Emma clenched her thighs again, she was such a sucker for strong arms.

            “Probably the usual,” he shrugged, “going to the library with the hopes of escaping the sounds of my brother’s reawakened sex life and attempting to get some work done.”

            “Sounds riveting,” Emma teased, her green eyes alight with mirth.

            “Och, aye,” Killian nodded as he grinned back at her, “incredibly entertaining. Why do you ask?”

            “Would you be interested in having dinner with my family tomorrow?” Emma asked tentatively. She hated how breathless she sounded, hated that she was looking up at him through her eyelashes, but it seemed that her body suddenly had a mind of its own.

            “Your family?” Killian asked, his eyebrows raised further up behind his slopping fringe.

            “Yeah, my grandparents usually have David and me over for dinner on Sundays. You don’t have to come if you don’t want to,” Emma began, her voice both flustered and apologetic as she tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “I just thought I’d do something nice for you since you tend to be there for me when I need you, even if I’m too stubborn to notice it.”

            “Surely, you must know that I don’t expect anything in return,” Killian tells her, his hand going up to nervously scratch his ear.

            “I know, I just—,” she broke off, suddenly nervous about what she was going to say. “I don’t want to push you away anymore. You don’t deserve that,” Emma admitted, her voice quiet with thinly veiled apprehension at his possible reaction. Killian stared at her dumfounded. His mouth hung slightly open in surprise, until he shook himself out of it, biting his lip to keep his smile on the smaller side.

            “I’d love to go, Swan,” he said, and she tried not to let her mind linger on how blood seemed to rush through the capillaries on the side of his neck and all the way up to the tips of his ears tinting his skin a flushed pink.

            “Good,” Emma grinned again. “I’ll pick you up around four thirty.”

***

            Sunday goes by, as quickly as any Sunday tends to go, with the new dawn filtering through her closed blinds and streaming into her room. Killian and she have been messaging all night and day long, after quickly falling into a conversation earlier that morning once he had messaged her that he had gotten home safe. Unsurprisingly, their conversation last night had sparked a sense of approval in Killian’s mind and he started messaging Emma as a way to show her that he wanted to be a part of her life. As a way of showing her that he gets it, that he understands that pushing people away becomes second nature when they get too close to you, because when no one attempts to get too close to you in the first place it makes it inexplicably hard to trust that those that attempt a connection think that you’re worth it.

            He makes her laugh a lot, makes her forget that her phone is still silent when it comes to Graham. It’s been weeks since she can say that she has started out her day with laughter. This morning he sent a video of himself, his face paralyzed with fear as he told her “this was [his] alarm clock now.” Emma listened intently at the steady thumps against the wall, the unmistakable rhythmic bounce of mattress springs, and barely noticeable breathy moans. Taking in the sounds in connection with the look on his face and his message asking her whether she thought his house was haunted, was enough to make Emma actually laugh out loud and not just respond to his message without a smile gracing her face and just saying that she had indeed “ _lol-ed_.”

            Her morning passes faster than she has time to process, and she’s down at the Marigny again getting ready to run through the show one last time. Her grandparents and uncles are in the audience and she really hopes her seventy-six year old grandfather doesn’t have a stroke during her performance. The acts go by seamlessly, her performance fueled by Graham’s doubts about her decision. She can’t help but mutter that no one tells her what to do, nobody tells her how to act. Killian was right, this was just a petty fight and there would be more, but if Graham didn’t respect the things she loved then she has no reason to stay in the relationship if she doesn’t want to.

            Once the show is over, Emma greets her family, who as always congratulates her and commends her on her performance. Her grandmother, Adele Nolan, makes a comment about the lack of clothing on that main character but that other than that she was highly entertained by the show. Emma’s grandfather, Reginald “Reggie” Nolan, rolls his eyes at her, saying that he commended the man for being able to put on such a show stopping performance wearing those heels. Emma laughs, feeling at home with them already. She tells them that she’s picking up a friend before heading over to Mandeville for dinner.

            “Oh, is this the young man David said you’ve met?” Her grandmother asks wistfully, making her grandfather scowl and a faint blush to quickly spread on Emma’s chest.

            “No, Killian is just a friend,” Emma tells them, not wanting to bring up Graham just in case there wasn’t a Graham to bring up anymore.

***

            On her way over to MidCity, Emma is giddy for some reason. She wants to say it’s because she’s still running on the adrenaline from the show, but deep inside she knows why, or rather who, is the reason behind her giddiness.

            But, can you blame her?

            Certainly, this kind of feels like a one-eighty on her character, the fact that she’s just letting him in no questions asked. Surely, one night couldn’t be enough for her to completely disregard her disdain towards Killian and actually consider giving into the friendship he had asked for weeks ago. They were well on their way back then, weren’t they? Back before she fucked everything up, stormed up to his house and pounded on his door, and then when he came out started berating him for doing something she was entirely to blame for. Back before she messed things up even further by blatantly and childishly ignoring him for well over a week and a half when he tried to apologize for something he never should have apologized for. And sure, an argument could be made that he was no different than Graham, that Killian too seemed to have a say on how Emma should do things, the little speech he made when she was arguing with him about her term paper grade and the way he insisted she stopped pushing him away and let her drive her home come to mind.

            However, Emma doesn’t see it that way. There is a difference between telling someone to do something because it goes against what you want and not being afraid to tell someone what they don’t want to hear because they’re too stubborn to see that it’s what is best for them. Killian didn’t argue about her grade because he didn’t like the way she wrote it. No, he argued with her because he knew she could have done so much better than what she handed in, if she actually applied herself. And that’s the key difference, the fact that Killian wasn’t afraid to tell it to her like it is, whether she likes it or not, that is what she values as true friendship. Tiptoeing around the line just to make sure you stay on your friend’s good side, isn’t the mark of true friendship, it’s not being afraid to tell your friend when they’re wrong just as much as you’re not afraid to tell them when they’re right. And the fact that he’s not afraid to tell her when she’s in the wrong doesn’t mean that she won’t get mad at him for it, because knowing her own temper it’s more likely that she will more often than when she’ll be appreciative for it. It’s the fact that he’s wiling do it at all, to give her a real friendship, _that_ has her feeling giddy.

            Her giddiness is short-lived, though, and her happy demeanor fizzles out altogether once she reaches his apartment, it’s almost as if she felt the emotion escape her body as fast as the last amount of air escapes the bottle of a carbonated drink once you unscrew the top and realize that it’s gone flat. Emma tries not to let the sight in front of her bother her, after all as Killian’s friend she doesn’t have any claim to him past platonic, just like she wanted in the first place. Nonetheless the plummet of her heart into her stomach is evident and clear as day when she pulls up and she’s greeted by the sight of one Christine Bell with her legs draped above Killian’s lap as they both sit on the porch, waiting for Emma’s arrival with his hands high on Christine’s thighs and infatuated looks on both of their faces.

            Emma doesn’t get out of the car. Instead she waits inside the yellow bug with her eyes trained on her phone so as to not have to look at the exchange outside the car. She’s glad that the temperature has dropped to the fifties, because that means she had no reason to have her windows down and also because she really doesn’t know how she would have reacted to hearing Killian making out with his… _person_.

            She meets his snarky smirk with raised eyebrows as he slides into her car.

            “Hey,” he says simply as he reaches over to wrap his arms around her in a hug. To say that she fights tooth and nail to quell the swooping sensation in her stomach is an understatement.

            “Hey yourself,” Emma greets back, hoping against hope that her voice doesn’t sound as flustered and high-pitched as she swears it does.

            “So, where are we off to?” Killian grins, easing back into the leather passenger seat, and crossing his arms lazily underneath his head.

            _I swear to god Emma,_ she thinks to herself threateningly, _if you look to see if his shirt has risen up I will kill you._

_“_ Mandeville,” she tells him, driving her car off her parking spot and down the road, “my grandparents live just off Lake Pontchartrain.”

            “Brilliant, I’ve never been,” Killian tells her.

            “I think you’ll find it rather posh,” Emma quips, trying—and failing—to imitate his accent. Killian stares back at her in mock horror. At least, she hopes it’s mock horror and not actual horror.

            “Please, lass, do the world a favor and never attempt the British accent ever again.”

            “Is it not to your liking, _mate_?” Emma smirks again, and she slaps him hard in the arm when he shudders in response.

            Her nerves ease down considerably during the drive, quelling themselves fairly quickly into the comfort she’s come to associate with being in Killian’s presence. The drive to Mandeville is long by New Orleanian’s standards. The ride out the city, from MidCity to the Lakefront, is really just ten minutes or so and that’s fine. The real burden is crossing the bridge that connects one shore of Lake Pontchartrain to the other—a thirty-minute drive on a four-lane bridge paralleled by another bridge going in the opposite direction.

            The sun was setting quickly over the horizon and the New Orleans skyline had been continuously shrinking away the closer they got to Mandeville, the Superdome and the skyscrapers getting smaller and smaller until they completely vanished from view. It’s dusk when they arrive, the purplish sky still holding streaks of reds and pinks as the sun continued to set, spreading splashes of gold over the inky blue water.

            David’s black Mercedes is already parked on the driveway, which not only meant that he would give her hell for being late, but he would also give her crap for bringing Killian without telling him about it. Though he doesn’t completely abhor the thought of Graham being her boyfriend, David, bless his heart, seems to be convinced that she’d be better off with his best friend. So convinced, in fact, that when Emma refused to speak to Killian last week, David had the nerve to go over to her apartment and tell her off about it, and saying how she and Killian would get extraordinarily well if she just gave him a chance.

            It is important to note that the aforementioned memory serves to establish the fact that it now makes two men that David approves of to be with Emma, and also the possibility that hell has frozen over.

            Emma and Killian shuffle awkwardly on the threshold of the imposing (read: registered historic) lakefront home. She takes a look around, smiling ruefully at the fact that the house hasn’t seen any major changes since she was little. The wooden walls and cement arches that hold the three-story building up are still white and gas lanterns still flicker idly on every other pillar. Spanish moss still hangs from the towering oak trees that surround the house, including the one that held a tire swing that was older than she was, and small lights illuminate the path of the terra cotta cobblestones that surround the house and all the way out to the pier.

            Memories flit through her mind, memories of her and her cousins running through the tall grass during the summers they got to spend together, the grass blades tickling her bare feet, her laughter swirling with the summer breeze. Emma is smiling as she takes in the boat that sits unused in the garage. She’d spent so many lazy summer days on that boat, she remembers how it bobbed on the water and she can almost feel the warmth of the sun that caressed her skin during those outings.

            Her grandmother ends up opening the door, her short blonde hair coiffed up in a hairdo that makes Emma think of both Rose Nylund in the _Golden Girls_ and of Bozo the Clown. Her grandmother’s dark brown eyes widen slightly as she takes in Killian, but she says nothing embarrassing and instead turns on her sickly, sweet southern charm as she welcomes them into the house. As she steps through the antique wooden flooring of the grand foyer, Emma can hear the unmistakable sounds of _Sunday Night Football_ streaming in from the living room. She forgot the Saints played today, usually whenever they have dinner on Sunday it’s because football season hasn’t started or the Saints are playing an away game and her grandfather and David prefer to watch it together.

            Sure enough, as she steps into the living room with Killian shuffling silently behind her, she sees her cousin and grandfather on opposite ends of the leather sectional with their eyes glued onto the screen. Emma walks over to her grandfather, leaning down to kiss his temple.

            “Stop being rude, I want to introduce you to someone,” Emma chastises him good-naturedly. Her grandfather looks over to her and as his gaze falls on Killian with his mouth curving into a weathered smirk, Emma instantly regrets bringing him over with her. Reggie Nolan tends to be a bit overbearing when it comes to his teasing, this is partly why Emma and David’s entire relationship is built on an unspoken agreement to see which one of them can rile the other up the fastest.

            “Is this your boyfriend, Emma?” her grandfather asks with a grin and a mischievous glint in his clear blue eyes. Emma eyes the combination of the couple of _Abita Amber_ bottles that litter the TV table in front of him and her grandfather’s rosy pink cheeks warily. She shoots a glare at David, who still sits on the couch looking like the cat that ate the _fucking_ canary, enjoying the torment her grandfather plans to inflict all too much.

            “ _Gramps_ ,” Emma groans, rolling her eyes as she walks over to grab the _Abita Purple Haze_ that David already has stretched out towards her. She motions for another one, and hands it over to Killian after walking back across the living room.

            “Are you her boyfriend, son?” Her grandfather asks again, the weathered smirk still in place and directed at Killian.

            “I’m afraid another has beat me to it, sir,” Killian replies seemingly unfazed, but Emma catches the pink tinge of embarrassment betraying him as it reddens his ears. “Unfortunately, I’ll just have to be happy with being her friend,” Killian makes a motion with his arms, lifting it as if the fact that Emma had a boyfriend was something beyond his control and he’d just learned to deal with it. Which, in hindsight, wasn’t too far from the truth, Emma thought.

            “Unfortunately, is it?” Her grandfather asks Killian slowly, and if Emma wasn’t so far away from David, she’d punch the smirk right off the bastard’s face. “But if fortune favored you, I take it you wouldn’t hesitate?”

            Oh, God, this conversation was a nightmare. She never should have brought Killian over, not after they’d been asking her incessantly to bring her boyfriend over so they could meet him. Emma had declined over and over again, feeling like she and Graham hadn’t reached the “Meet the Grandparents” stage in their relationship and wouldn’t be for quite some while. Nonetheless, here she was watching as her grandfather interrogated Killian like he was on trial and her grandfather was still a big-shot appellate lawyer. Honestly, he and David are so alike, it’s scary.

            “ _Okay!_ This conversation has to end, _Reggie_ ,” Emma cries out, embarrassed even further at the rasping cackles that stemmed from the bottom of her grandfather’s chest. “You’ve had your fun and I am going to see if Nana needs any help in the kitchen, and I’m taking my _friend_ with me,” Emma scowls, wrapping her hand around Killian’s arm and yanking him towards the direction of the kitchen.

            “Sorry about that,” Emma mumbles as she walks down the long corridor and down to the kitchen. She notices that her hand is still wrapped tightly around his arm and the realization adds more humiliation to the already present mortification and she lets go of his arm hastily.

            “It’s nothing, Swan, truly I think it vexed you much more than it bothered me,” Killian murmurs quietly behind her. “Not that it bothered me at all, I thought it was rather amusing to see how riled up you got.” She turns towards him and shoots him a glare, the last thing she needs is for Killian to join the ranks of Reginald and David Nolan by making a habit of aggravating her.

            Emma is surprised, pleasantly so, to see Mary Margaret in the kitchen, looking at home in the company of her grandmother as they made the final touches on dinner. She finds that there’s not much to do in the kitchen, since dinner is almost done and they’ll be eating soon, so Emma just sits on a kitchen stool and takes methodical swigs of her beer while she waits. In contrast, Killian keeps hovering around her grandmother and Mary Margaret, eager to fulfill his proper guest duties and help out with dinner. Emma isn’t sure if her grandma concedes to his charms or if she’s just tired of him looming anxiously over her shoulder when she tells him he can start setting the table with Emma if he wishes to keep himself occupied.

***

            Dinner goes by relatively smoothly, her grandfather behaves and David doesn’t poke too much fun at her expense so Emma counts that as a win. Her grandmother had prepared braised short ribs with a side of herbed mashed potatoes topped with Gorgonzola, and a kale Caesar salad. Mary Margaret had brought a bottle of sweet red wine and they switched from beer to the chilled, fruity wine instead. The large dining room was quiet as they began to eat, the only sounds coming from the rustling wind outside the house and the faint noise coming from the living room where the football game still played.

            “Em, dear, your mother called. She wants you to remember that you’re running out of time to get a gown,” her grandmother says halfway through dinner as she passes the salad bowl towards her.

            “What does Em need a gown for?” David asks, a scowl etched deep in his forehead.

            “Nothing,” Emma mumbles behind the rim of her wine glass.

            “Em, didn’t tell you?”

            “Adele, of course Emma didn’t tell him about it,” her grandfather counters gruffly at his wife, but as he looks back at Emma with a smirk, there’s a twinkle in his blue eyes. Emma hides her smile behind her wine glass again. Her grandfather was always in her corner no matter whom she was up against, and more often than not Emma was up against her own mother. “I’d be surprised if she told anyone about it.”

            “Well, David, Emma is going to be part of the court in _Prometheus_ this year,” her grandmother says kindly, and Emma is relieved to hear that the hint of reverence in her tone was not nearly as excited as her mother’s had been.

            “I thought you were never going to do that,” David states matter-of-fact while shooting her an inquisitive brow, his voice muffled by the dinner roll he had previously stuffed his mouth with.

            “I wasn’t planning on doing it,” Emma shrugs and takes a swig of her wine, the chilled liquid burning welcomingly in her navel as it reaches her stomach. “Ava gave me no choice,” she says as if that explained everything, and between her and her cousin, it did. Between them, saying that her mother gave Emma no choice resonated in David understanding the feeling completely, seeing as his father seldom gave him any choice either. That’s the reason Emma is weary about him dating Mary Margaret, not because she doesn’t think they make a great couple because they do. Where David is quick and fiery witted, Mary Margaret is levelheaded and rational, and together they make a pretty unstoppable team. But it would be that unstoppability that would rub her uncle the wrong way and would make him want to force David to leave Mary Margaret. Emma knows that her uncle would not like that Mary Margaret is not easily malleable and not easy to manipulate, and while he can control David’s twin brother James—an ass hat and a fucking leech that Emma has never been able to stomach. David, on the other hand, had completely inherited his mother’s character—her aunt Ruth was just, compassionate, and kind—and was not one to want to give in to the greed her uncle tended to strive on. Jack, James’s girlfriend, was just as greedy as him and far easier to manipulate to make sure that James’s did his father’s bidding. Mary Margaret, though, with her character mirroring David’s? Well, it just wasn’t going to go over well with her uncle at all.

            “Typical Ava,” David nods and shoots an eye-roll in Emma’s direction.

            “David, it’s not your aunt’s fault that Emma doesn’t like the same frilly activities that she does,” her grandmother chastises half-heartedly, and Emma doesn’t understand why her grandmother is even defending her mother against David since it’s not like they’ve had a picture-perfect relationship since they had moved to New York.

            “Though, surely, it would be her fault if she didn’t, at least, _try_ to give importance to those interests Emma was fond of, however adverse they were to her own,” Killian offers besides her, much to the surprise of the entire table. David sports a smirk that matches her grandfather’s, Mary Margaret carries a knowing smile that brightens up her light green eyes, her grandmother has been rendered speechless for what Emma thinks is the first time ever since she learned how to string words together, and Emma can feel the heat travel up around her chest and towards her cheeks, and she knows that surely her face is flushed with an undeniable blush once she turns to look at him.

            Wide blue eyes meet her green gaze, chagrined.

            “Sorry,” he says, his eyes wide and the tips of his ears flushed a deep scarlet. “I seem to let my mouth run away with me. It’s gotten me into trouble in the past and I can’t seem to fix the habit.”

            “Don’t be,” her grandfather quips from the head of the table, his face split in a toothy grin. “We could use more honest people in this family.”

            Emma senses Killian tense next to her, as the word ‘family’ hangs heavily around the room. She does the first thing that comes to mind, her instinct taking over and wanting Killian to feel as comfortable around her and her family, as he makes her feel around him. Emma’s hand rests on his thigh, squeezing lightly in reassurance, and she thinks that she probably shouldn’t have done something so blatantly intimate but she finds that she doesn’t care. All she wants is for him to know that she appreciates him coming in her defense like that, coming to her aid when she didn’t know she needed it once again. His warm hand finds its way to hers, only this time he turns it around and covers her palm with his own, his fingers interlocking with hers, and she feels her heart throbbing in her throat.

            “Thank you,” Emma mouths silently at Killian, and he grips her hand even tighter, even more reassuring than before. She watches as a blush spreads throughout his cheeks, staining his freckled skin like watercolors on parchment, contrasting with the brilliant smile that he gives her and making her realize that she wants nothing more than to make sure she’s the only source and the only person that smile is directed at.

            God, she has it bad.

            “Are your parents going to be at the ball, Em?” Mary Margaret asks, her tinkling voice breaking the spell that Emma seemed to be under. She avoids the raised eyebrow her grandfather shooting at her, knowing that he’s wondering why they both, Emma and Killian, insisted on not being together when that’s exactly the way they’re acting.

            “I guess my mom will,” Emma shrugs as she reaches in front of her to grab the wine decanter and refill her glass. “I find it hard to believe that after twisting my arm into doing this she wouldn’t show up, but she’s a mystery to me so maybe she won’t and I’ll get to count my blessings.”

            “Emma!” her grandmother calls out her name in a reprimanding tone, her blonde eyebrows scowling in Emma’s direction.

            Emma rolls her eyes.

            “What?” she asks. “You know it’s true, we have nothing in common,” she states and the room gets swallowed up into silence again.

            “I wish we did have something though,” Emma mutters after a few moments, the wine and beer swirling contentedly in her stomach—a miracle if there ever was one—resulting in a lowering of her inhibitions. “I know she tries in her own way and I do too, I just…we’re too different. I don’t know why we can’t ever be on the same side.”

            “That’s because she doesn’t understand you,” her grandfather nods somberly from the other side. “You take after your dad’s side of the family much more than you take after ours.”

            “I’m fairly sure I do not take after the Swans, gramps,” Emma scoffs as she pushes the remnants of her dinner around her plate. She focuses on the intricate pattern around the border rather than on the weight the estrangement from her mother places on her shoulders, the royal blue trim swirling against white china in sophisticated swirls that make up different flowers of all shapes and sizes until it all blurs away after staring at it for so long.

            “You don’t,” he assents. “You have LaBoeuf in you more so than you have Nolan or Swan.”

            Emma’s entire being runs cold. Was her grandfather referring to the Lousiana LaBoeufs, the family that she was currently researching for and the family that she was not at all aware that she formed part of?

            “LaBoeufs?” Killian asks for her. “As in the family that owned the big mansion on the Quarter and the sugar cane plantation up north?”

            “Mhm,” her grandfather nods. “The very same.”

            “Dad’s family has always been from Long Island,” Emma starts shaking her head. “I’ve never heard dad or anyone mention the LaBoeufs at all.”

            Her grandmother comes back into the room with a tin of apple crumble pie on one hand and a tub vanilla ice cream on the other. Her lips are pursed at the fact that they were still discussing private family matters in front of guests. Adele Nolan was a very firm supporter of the notion that one should never air out dirty laundry for everyone to see, yet in this case Emma had told Killian all about her estrangement with her mother weeks ago and she’s more than sure that David did not spare Mary Margaret any details on his relationship with his father. Figuratively speaking, both Mary Margaret and Killian had seen the dirty laundry and had even helped both Emma and David to fold it up and try to move past it.

            “That’s because most of your arrogant father’s arrogant family were ashamed of your great-great uncle and _he_ married one of the LaBoeufs from Louisiana,” he huffs, slicing off a piece of apple crumble pie and vanilla ice cream with his spoon.

            “Please, gramps, tell me how you really feel about my father’s side of the family,” Emma laughs, her teeth nibbling her lower lip to try and restrain her smile from grinning any wider at the deadpan look her grandfather directed at her. It was no secret that Reginald Nolan could not stomach Tripp Swan, and that delicate piece of dirty laundry was aired and hung on a pillar like a flag that waged war against her father’s side of the family ever since the darling Nolan girl came back from a trip to New York with a fetus in her uterus only weeks past gestation. “Who was this uncle I’ve never heard of?”

            “I think his name was Theodore, but rumor has it he was a bit of a poof.”

            “Your homophobia is showing, Reggie,” David snickers from across the table, earning him a steely glare from their grandfather.

            “That was the rumor that was spread for decades and I’m just setting the stage for the story but if you wish to correct a seventy-six year old, southern conservative white man’s political incorrectness, be my guest. _You’ll_ have to answer to your cousin when I get too irritated to finish the story,” her grandfather snaps and Emma has to bite her lips again as she’s trying to control the nervous giggle that tends to slip from her mouth whenever David gets reprimanded instead of her.

            “Okay, okay,” Emma starts, “So there’s a rumor that my great-great uncle was most likely gay and that’s why he was shunned from the family. What’s the rest of the story?”

            Her grandfather tells her the story of her great-great grandfather and her cousin’s namesake, David Nolan. Before being a prominent family in society, the Nolans had been farmers up in southern Louisiana—near the boot, he said, farther down by Plaquemines Parish—and they made transactions with the big families in New Orleans and the surrounding plantations for cattle, livestock, and the horses they bred. David had become close friends with the LaBoeuf girls, Charlotte, Elsa, and Emmeline, as he was often brought along for these transactions with his father. Her grandfather keeps talking about how his grandfather had told him that he had a mild-infatuation with Charlotte but she wouldn’t look twice at him for being a shepherd—she was determined to marry a prince at whatever cost—but that Elsa and Emmeline had never given second thought to the chasm between their social classes and were cordial and well mannered to him whenever they were together. He and Emmeline had become confidants the summer she turned fifteen and they proceeded to getting into all sorts of trouble together, whether it was losing themselves in the French Market when their families travelled down to the Quarter, running along the acreage of the plantation barefoot or racing each other on horseback. She was a sad little girl but mischievous—an imp, her mother would call her since the day she was born—her temper was fiery, resembling the flares that stem from the surface of the sun every so often, but her heart was kind and a great friend. When Charlotte refused him, Emmeline saw it to introduce him to her maternal cousin Marie, a raven-haired young girl with light green eyes, who had lost both her parents during a hurricane that hit the French colony of Saint Martin in the Caribbean. Marie had been sent over to live with her aunt in Louisiana, she struggled to learn English, but David—at Emmeline’s matchmaking insistence—taught her, Marie had been well-mannered and kind, and his match in every way. They were married the following spring.

            David saw Emmeline debut and fall in love with the English lieutenant that she grew up with, and he saw her devastation when he had been lost in the war. Saw her filled with silent resilience in the months after his funeral, but she had hardened considerably with the loss of her true love, and closing herself off to any sort of comfort. After losing her lieutenant, Emmeline suffered loss after loss, what with her older sister Elsa dying from influenza and then her brother-in-law, the only connection she had left to her lieutenant, died weeks after his wife, when he raised a gun to his head when he couldn’t take the demons that swirled in his mind after the war alongside the irrevocable loss of his sweet young bride and the child she had been carrying.

            David witnessed as Emmeline was determined to stay strong despite all that happened but the loss weathered her, whittling her body down nearly to the bare bones that held her up. Salvation seemed to come down years after the loss of her lieutenant, in the form of the courting of one Theodore Swan from New York, a wealthy but rather eccentric young man that became enthralled with her when he saw her with her very pregnant cousin Marie, both of them walking down the French Quarter when Emmeline was twenty years old. Emmeline did not love him, maybe she grew to at one point, but she was persuaded by her father, her mother, and her friends to let him in if not for love, then for the financial protection her parents weren’t able to provide anymore since during those years they had suffered physical losses as well. A hurricane had struck the southern region of Louisiana and the crops had been flooded by the overflowing Mississippi, leaving her family to lose profits till the next harvesting season. Emmeline ended up marrying Theodore and moving to Paris till she moved stateside in the late thirties, taking up residence in Long Island.

            “And that’s why we live in the manor now, don’t we?” Emma voices, recalling something that Xiomara, the Puerto Rican housemaid that raised her, had told her once. Xo had caught an eight-year-old Emma trying to get into parts of the house that she was forbidden to explore. It was dangerous, Xo had told her, since most of the house was still being renovated because nobody had lived in it in years. When Emma asked why nobody lived in it beforehand, Xo explained that her father had been waiting for a girl to be born into the family so they could move in.

            Her grandfather nods.

            “We used to live in Manhattan but when I was born my dad inherited this huge manor in Long Island from his great-aunt, I just never thought about it,” Emma explains and she hopes against hope that the reason they inherited the house from Emmeline LaBoeuf and the reason that a female Swan child hadn’t been born in nearly four generations had nothing to do with her or anything Ursula had told her.

            _Her name wasn’t Harry James Potter_ , she thought, _and she refuses to be part of any century-old prophecy._

***

            “That was intense,” Killian mutters next to her, the lights of oncoming traffic illuminating his face. He’s driving them back now, his eyes focused intently on the causeway ahead of them, and the streetlights illuminating the inky black abyss that hung between the night sky and the darkened lake. You still couldn’t see the skyline on the other shore, and the bridge seemed to go on for years, it seemed endless.

            “Yeah,” Emma agrees with him. “I’m sorry about that, it’s usually pretty chill and less like _The Maury Show._ ”

            Killian laughs at that, tells her that it was nothing like _The Maury Show_ , and once again Emma is filled with the satisfaction of bringing joy to his face. The drive is less stressful on the way back, there’s less traffic and they don’t talk as much. Emma finds herself sneaking a handful of looks at him, taking in the way he mumbles the words to the songs the radio plays, singing under his breath as his eyes flit expertly throughout every rearview mirror, his focus entirely at his task at hand.

            She’s about to go down her little fuck-struck rabbit hole when he speaks out,

            “Any word from Graham?”

            “Radio silence,” she mutters back, and looks out to the dark view that surrounds them, unable to distinguish where land commenced, water ended, and the night sky began. She focuses on the stars around them, brighter out here in the middle of nowhere than they ever will be as they compete with the false illumination of the city.

            _Graham_ , she thinks as she starts to see the faint outline of the New Orleans skyline from the bridge, _she still has him_.

            Yes, she still has him and she owes it to him to be respectful of their relationship until they don’t have one anymore.

            “Well, he’s crazy about you,” Killian ensures, shooting a reassuring grin her way. “I’m sure he’ll call soon.”

            ‘ _Are you crazy about me?_ ’ Emma finds herself thinking, her throat dry and eyes enlarged in surprise, the destination that her thoughts brought her rendering her speechless.

            “Maybe I’ll call him,” Emma muses, and she hopes that the darkness that flits through Killian’s features is due to his unease with the thought of her and Graham together again, and not a shadow caused by the unlit streetlight they had just passed.

            They spend the rest of the drive to MidCity in silence, the soft rock whirling around them as unnoticed as the slight chill that came in from the outside wind. Emma drops him off at his apartment, and he leaves not without placing another kiss on her cheek. She shakes her head at the way the warmth spreads low in her belly, choosing to deny the feelings and blame the warmth on the mixture of beer and wine she ingested earlier.

            She lies on her bed hours later, feeling confused, panicky, and uneasy for three different reasons. The first, because Graham had called, had apologized to her, and had asked her out to dinner this week to clear the air. The second, because a strong part of her wished that Killian had called her and asked her out to dinner instead. The third, because for the past two hours she had been scouring the deep corners of Google for pictures of Emmeline LaBoeuf and had only found something when she searched for Theodore Swan, who had been a prominent member of the Surrealist movement in Paris in the 1920s. Listed as his spouse was one Elsa Swan, an heiress from New Orleans turned silver-screen actress in Paris. Emma had clicked on the link, and she scrolled through the limited information provided until a photograph stopped her in her tracks, a photograph she’d recognize anywhere. Emma felt faint as she took in the same wedding picture she had seen back in September, and as she took in her own resilient green eyes staring back at her from her computer screen.

***

            Emma has dinner with Graham the following Wednesday, and it’s awkward to say the least—“ _Hella-fucking-awkward,”_ as Ruby would so aptly put it. He’s tentative around her, treating her like a ticking time bomb, which Emma thinks is curious seeing as he was the one that lashed out at her last time they were together. Still, part of her still wants to make this work between them, prove to herself that she _can_ be a decent girlfriend, that she _can_ make herself as infatuated with him as she was back in August. They go out to a local pizzeria on Magazine Street, it’s low-key, casual, and a clear invitation back to normalcy.

            “I’ve missed you,” he tells her anxiously toying with the napkin next to his plate, his hand outstretched and twitching slightly, almost as if he’s desperate to take her hand into his. Emma, though, doesn’t have that same inclination and keeps her hands on her lap instead.

            “I’ve missed you too,” she answers him and it wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the truth either. It was a sentence that fell somewhere in the middle in the spectrum of the truth/lie hybrid, or in Emma’s case the acceptance/stubbornness hybrid. She hasn’t touched her food and she’s desperate to keep the anxiety down her throat, keep the feeling of wanting desperately to be anywhere but here out of her mind. He clearly wants to fix this—whatever _this_ is between them—and she should let him. It’s only fair.

            The conversation is limited throughout dinner, sporadic and clipped, and long silences tend to stretch uncomfortably between them. What was once filled with such promise, seemed to had fizzled out overnight, at least where Emma is concerned. She looks at him and finds that butterflies no longer swirl around the confines of her stomach, no swooping sensations, no goose bumps, no genuine happiness.

            She looks at him and she feels nothing, no overwhelming attraction, no familiarity, and no genuine connection with him. Elsa’s words ring in the back of her mind as she recalls the conversation they had had over brunch last week. Her limited experience with monogamous, serious relationships, hadn’t given her any real insight on how a relationship should feel and Emma wonders whether what Elsa had with Liam—this apparent deeper level of understanding and love shared with a significant other—was a normal feature of every relationship, or if Elsa’s connection with Liam was just a blip, the smaller, slimmer number in the ratio of love and understanding contrasted to a relationship based solely on attraction. And if that was the case, was Emma ever going to make the jump from the bigger number to the smaller one? Would she ever feel that connection that Elsa gushed about over lox and mimosas with Graham or was she kidding herself?

            Throughout the night, Emma’s mind flits back to the conversation she had with Mary Margaret last Sunday. After dinner at her grandparents, Emma needed air and walked out towards the pier. Thankfully, Killian didn’t follow her, but Mary Margaret had caught her sitting on the wooden pier, watching the water slosh lazily against the shore and taking a much-needed drag out of a cigarette. Yes, Emma had quit well over a year ago but sometimes when she felt too anxious and the situation merited seeking solace in a pack of _Marlboro Golds,_ she did just that. Mary Margaret didn’t chastise her, instead she voiced her concerns about Emma’s new relationship. She mentioned how she did not think Emma seemed happy, how Graham seemed controlling, and she wanted Emma to know that she was there for Emma, if she was so needed. Emma knew that Mary Margaret had a point, she wasn’t happy in this relationship, but she wasn’t about to give up on it either. Emma blames her pride, the pride that didn’t want to admit that she had picked wrong, made the wrong choice. Emma doesn’t make wrong choices, every decision she takes is carefully deliberated, the pros and cons weighed against each other. Emma Swan doesn’t jump into anything without thinking through it, much less into a committed relationship.

            Unless she was running from something.

            And she had been running, hadn’t she? Yes she had weighed the pros and cons, she had carefully deliberated the differences between Graham and Killian. She chose the safe option rather than the reckless one. She chose warm, hunter green eyes over tempestuous, blue ones. She chose earth over ocean, the stable over the unfathomable, Graham over Killian. Had that been the right choice? Would she feel the same way Elsa feels about Liam if she hadn’t pushed Killian away because he frightened her and hadn’t chosen Graham because he felt safe, when in reality the they had both turned out to be the opposite that she thought at first glance?

            The ride home has her mind filled with thoughts she shouldn’t be having. She shouldn’t be thinking about how Killian was different than Graham, she shouldn’t feel regret about the choice she made, she shouldn’t wish to go back and kiss Killian that night he dropped her off at her apartment, or when he stayed with her at the hospital, both times where the attraction between them crackled like haywire electricity between two loose wires, and she _definitely_ shouldn’t be imagining kissing Killian in both those scenarios.

            Nonetheless, that’s what she did. She couldn’t help but think about how Killian hadn’t embarrassed her in front of her friends and questioned her acting choices. How Killian wasn’t possessive, wanted her to put her studies before their friendship, and didn’t show up at her apartment unannounced with plans made for both of them without consulting her beforehand. He didn’t give her the silent treatment when he was upset with her, instead he let her know so they could move past it. Killian didn’t _suffocate_ her.

            Denial surges through her the entire night, she doesn’t want to think about Killian like that. They’re _friends_ nothing more than that and she had ensured that relationship status. And even if she hadn’t, he’s with Christine, so the fact that she’s realizing that she has deep, saturated feelings for him doesn’t matter. He’s just as unavailable as she is.

            Emma lets denial manifest in the best way she knows how. She _has_ to feel something for Graham again, but as she lays bare in his bed that night she still doesn’t feel anything. She had made the right sounds at the appropriate times, she had even half-enjoyed the feeling of him inside of her, but it had been just that: just sex. There was no attachment on her part, no reciprocal enthusiasm, there had only been an irrevocable void, an emptiness of feeling.

            Graham’s fingers swirl lazily across her freckled back, switching between toying with her hair and drawing faint patterns across her back. The seconds stretch between them in silence, his arm snaking its way across her stomach, pulling her closer.

            “Emma?” he says after God knows how many minutes of silence.

            “Hmm?” she offers sleepily next to him.

            “I love you,” he breathes next to her ear and her eyes, which seconds ago had almost drenched been completely in impending sleep, jerk wide open. Graham must feel her back, which had been relaxed mere seconds ago, go suddenly rigid against his chest because he mutters, “You don’t have to say it back, I just wanted you to know.”

            Emma barely sleeps that night. Instead, she spends the rest of the night watching as the lights that stream from the window change as the hours progress, and fighting the undeniable, desperate urge that claws inside her body, the desire that begs for her to run.

***

            Emma spends the rest of the month focusing on her studies, and most importantly on researching her great-great-aunt, Emmeline. After Graham threw the three little words bomb on her, she avoided him in the only way she knew how: schoolwork. She didn’t love him that was for sure. Funny how life is, isn’t it? How you become the one thing you fear the most, here Graham had put his heart on the line for her and she was going to have to be the one to crush it into dust. Nonetheless, with finals coming up for both of them, breaking up with Graham was the last thing she wanted to do. She needed to focus on writing an incredible paper for Mills’ _History of New Orleans_ in order to level out her grade, she needed to start preparing her topics for her _Sociology of Gender_ test, write an essay for her philosophy class, study for two extra finals on top of needing to go to her advisor to give him a topic for her capstone presentation, and picking a date to take the GRE. Dealing with the unrequited love between her and Graham wasn’t of utmost importance. If Graham didn’t snap at her before finals were done, she’d deal with him after. Emma kind of hopes that he does snap at her before though, that way she can act as Pontius Pilate and wash her hands from the gory crucifixion of Graham Humbert’s love.

            Emma spends most of her time in the library, with Killian and her taking turns on separating study rooms for each other. On top of working planning lessons for the school he works for, he needs to fine tune planning the stay at Oak Ridge Plantation for Mills’ class, still has to turn in a rough draft of his thesis, which he presents at the end of next spring semester, by December 18th. The next three Sundays, even the one following Thanksgiving, Killian works on his draft while Emma takes practice tests for the GRE in the mornings and researches for her term paper after lunch. Most nights she’s beat and ready to go home by eight o’clock, but there are some days that they stay until ten or eleven. Late nights like those involve her and Killian stopping by Granny’s Diner on their way home and eating their second meal of the day in the form of lasagna for Killian and grilled cheese with onion rings for Emma.

            During their study sessions they grew even closer if possible. Emma grew fond of his company, and he did instill a sense of dedication to her studies that none of her friends had before. Usually, she and Ruby would end up in the library for hours but half of the time was used to gossip and the other half was used to studying for twenty minutes and then taking a two hour Netflix break because 1) they deserved it, and 2) the Wi-Fi at school was much better than the one at their apartment. With Killian though, they worked for hours at a time, took breaks by talking to and getting to know each other during lunch or walks to stretch their legs out. Not once did they mention Christine or Graham. From the looks of it—because Killian was reserved when it came to her—he was also having some issues with Christine, the words “smothered” and “overwhelmed” were the only ones Emma could get out of him about the whole ordeal. Those words were enough to paint a decent picture of what was going on between them.

            Emma wished that the fact that he was having trouble with Christine didn’t make her feel all sorts of smug and complacent on the inside, but they did. Every time she felt this way she tried to bury the feelings under a mountain of paperwork. If she didn’t have the time to deal with Graham, then she definitely shouldn’t be making time to become increasingly infatuated with Killian either.

            The fact that there was a department policy against students messing around with graduate assistants was a contributing factor to her stance against wanting to give into her infatuation. But even more controlling was the fact that they were friends, and that was all they would be. She had the opportunity to choose him months ago, but she convinced herself that she needed whatever relationship she had with him to be platonic and only platonic. Plus, what they had right now was so good, she didn’t want to ruin it by telling him that she was into him. Well, “into him” was kind of an understatement, but she doesn’t want to give more weight to her affections than needed, the fact that she has them is bad enough.

            The fieldtrip to Oak Ridge Plantation was scheduled for the first weekend of December. It was a little late for the trip but with the amount of rain that had hit Louisiana during the fall, Mills had to push back the date to the earliest convenience, which of course was the only free weekend of December students had before finals. Still, the trip was mandatory, and though most of them were grumbling they drove out towards the plantation. Most of the students, except the sophomores infatuated with Killian, had decided against of the optional overnight stay.

            As chaperones, though, Killian and Emma were expected to greet the students along with Professor Mills the next morning in the plantation, and though neither of them were too keen on driving almost two hours to the plantation on a Friday afternoon, they preferred it to meeting up with the rest of the class at six on a Saturday morning and _then_ driving almost two hours.

            Emma meets Killian in the school parking lot Friday afternoon around five, the sun had already set so they were both looking forward to a grim two hour drive through Bumfuck, Louisiana, as Emma was disdainfully calling it. Emma waits on the benches on the quad nearest to the garage with a duffel bag filled with clothes, shoes, and toiletries and another bag with food for the two-hour drive ahead of them, lying at her feet.

            She rolls her eyes as she hear a wolf-whistle directed at her, nearly five months later and Killian is just as insufferable as the first day she met him. Her heart still beats erratically when he is in her presence and her stomach still does a little swooping motion whenever he looks at her, the only difference now is that Emma wouldn’t mind waking up with his head between her legs whereas five months ago she would’ve punched him in the face if he got too close to her. Lately, he hasn’t been close enough.

            “You’re late,” Emma tells him derisively and Killian meets her deadpan look with his own.

            “Och, something I’m very aware of, lass,” he says contemptuously. “I tried to get here as fast as I could,” he tells her. “I was attempting to do something nice for you, but with this attitude I think I’ll let you suffer for a bit.”

            “Sorry, you know how I get when—,”

            “When you’re cold and hungry? Aye, which is why I stopped by Granny’s to get us dinner,” he tells her pulling a brown grease-stained bag from his backpack and waving it towards her, “before I subject myself to a two hour car ride with you,” Killian finishes with a smirk in her direction.

            “Is that a grilled cheese with onion rings?” Emma asks wistfully, her mouth watering and her stomach grumbling in response.

            “What the buggering fuck else would it be?” Killian asks bewildered, “Aside from the short ribs we had at your grandparents’ house, this is the only thing I’ve only seen you eat.” Emma stares at him and he grins back at her, “Come on Swan, we can eat it on the ride over, I don’t want to be on the road any longer than I need to be.”

            Killian thrusts the bag with their dinner into Emma’s hands and grabs her duffel bag before she is able to get to it. “Ah, ah, bad form, Swan,” he reprimands her when she opens the bag and takes out an onion ring. “Put it back,” he says and Emma glares at him but obliges.

            “You’re a sadistic ass,” Emma grumbles.

            “And you’re being a child,” Killian counters with a smirk and Emma has to bite back an exasperated scream. He’s taken to calling her that lately, mostly to make fun of their two-year age difference, but partly because of how stubborn she was. It’s ridiculous really, but every time it riles her up like crazy.

            “Stop _calling_ me that!” Emma cries out, wanting to curl up and die after realizing that he’s laughing at her for stomping her foot in protest, much like a child. “Can we just go? I’d like to get our pilgrimage to Bumfuck started.”

            “I do love how crass you are,” Killian grins as he opens up the massive white van.

            “I do love how we need to drive this pedophile van,” Emma counters, helping him to put the bags in the backseat before sitting on the front seat.

            “Aye, university policy, I’m afraid,” he shrugs as he slides into the driver’s seat, slipping the key into the ignition, and turning the van on. As they let the van warm up, Killian hands over the auxiliary cord, telling her that she’s in charge of music while he starts setting up the GPS. After she picks a decent album selection— _A Night at the Opera_ by Queen—and he sets the GPS, they pull out of the parking garage and make their way to Vacherie, Lousiana.

            They get lost, and what according to the GPS should have taken a little over an hour due to the lack of traffic, takes nearly four hours through back roads and questionable routes next to dirt levees and a turn down a street called Blood River Road. When they thought they were almost to the plantation, their GPS went haywire, rerouting the route fifteen different times, and their smartphones had lost all signal.

            “We’re going to die in the swamp,” Emma told him at one point, as the clock neared nine and their car was enveloped in a thick fog down a back road.

            “I’m not going to let you die in the swamp,” Killian mumbled back, irritated.

            “We could’ve asked for direc—,”

            “ _Don’t,_ Swan, we don’t need bloody directions. This is a state of the art GPS and we should be able to find our way to this bloody place without needing to ask for directions.”

            “Fine, but that state of the art GPS isn’t working. I give you half an hour, if not we’re turning around and going to the gas station we passed five minutes ago and _asking for directions_ ,” Emma huffed back, crossing her arms against her chest. Killian doesn’t respond, and Emma smiles at the deep furrowed scowl on his features. She doesn’t want to think about how handsome she finds him, how undeniably attracted she is to him, but somehow as her eyes start to get heavy-lidded and she feels herself get drowsy, the last thought she has centers around what would have happened she hadn’t been so scared and she had chosen Killian over Graham all those months ago. Would they have worked? Would they have fizzled out? Would they have had something strictly physical or could it have been the greatest love she had ever encountered? They were both so similar, and as friends he was quickly becoming the best one she’s ever had, and when she closes her eyes she finds herself wishing that they would’ve ended up being the latter.

***

            “Wake up, Swan,” Killian’s voice rouses her from sleep. Emma mumbles, turning in her seat and away from him. “Emma, come on, we’re here, we’re tired, and there are beds waiting for us upstairs lass.”

            “ _Leavemealone,_ ” she grumbles, feeling the undeniable urge to punch him in the face.

            “Fine, stay here and keep drooling on yourself. I’m sure Mills will find this to be a remarkable sight tomorrow morning,” she hears Killian tell her, and she can just picture the smirk on his face. Wait, did he say she was _drooling on herself_?

            Emma sits up quickly, her sudden movements reminding her of that one time during sophomore year when she slept through her alarm and woke up fifteen minutes before her biology final.

            “What time is it?” she asks groggily, rolling her eyes in response his snickering once she wiped the drool off the side of her mouth.

            _Great Emma,_ she thinks, _way to make sure he is completely turned off from you for the rest of eternity._

“S’nearly ten thirty,” he says through a yawn, stretching his arms above him making his shirt rise up with the movement and exposing the toned lower abdomen that has been driving Emma wild since she saw it back at the hospital all those months ago.

            “How did we get here so fast?” Emma asked, taking her duffel bag and the snack bag out of the van and swinging it over her shoulder, a yawn raking through her body as well.

            “I may or may not have stopped for directions shortly after you passed out,” he shrugs nonchalant, but Emma sees the telltale sign of embarrassment in the reddening of the tips of his ears. Emma grins and follows him through threshold on the massive porch and inside to the front desk.

            Killian handles the check-in, what with Emma still half asleep on her feet. The lanky teenager at the front desk hands them a key to their room and the itinerary for tomorrow’s activities. There’s talk about horse riding, traditional southern buffet for lunch, a tour of the Big House, a historical background to the LaBoeuf Estate, a tour of the cemetery, and the sugar cane fields, and for those over twenty-one, a tasting of the house liqueur. Emma only half listens to everything, her body still tired from sleeping only a little less than a normal sleep cycle.

            She’s fallen asleep again, her head rested on her arm that lay against the front desk, when he nudges her and says, “Come on Sleeping Beauty, let’s get you to bed.”

            “Don’t call me that,” Emma mumbles groggily.

            “Tell me, Emma, am I allowed any endearments?” He asks her, regarding her warily as she takes the stair steps at a glacial pace.

            “You may call me, ‘love,’” she mumbles, managing to sound imperiously despite being half asleep, and grinning like a fool when she extends her hand towards him and he indulges her by giving her a little bow.

            “I’d like that,” he says quietly, and if Emma were a little more alert, she would’ve noticed how flustered he sounded. “Room 302,” he announces, grinning at her as she rests her head against the wall and stumbling a bit with the key as he notices the look she gives him. The term “bedroom eyes” would not be too far-fetched here.

            “After you, love. I’ll be right back, going to fetch us something to drink,” he says and Emma nods grabbing her bags and stepping inside the room and straight towards the bathroom, suddenly aware of the desperate urge she had to use the facilities. Once she relieves her bladder, she splashes water on her face to wake herself up a bit.

            “Oh, bloody hell,” she hears Killian say from outside.

            “What’s up?” Emma asks as she pokes her head from the bathroom door. He shakes his head at her and pointing at the bed, the single marital bed in the room. “I thought we ordered two separate beds,” Emma says, feeling undeniably awake again.

            “We did,” Killian mutters, “don’t get to comfortable I’m going to see if we can get a change of rooms.”

            “Okay,” she mumbles softly, unable to deny that part of her did not mind the accommodations at all.

            She really needs to break up with Graham.

            Still, as she waits for Killian—the friend who she has ever-increasing feelings for—she swipes through her phone to message Graham—the boyfriend that she has ever-decreasing interest in—that they had gotten lost but had made it to the plantation in one piece and were already in the room.

            “ _Separate rooms?”_ Graham messaged back with far too many question marks and Emma groaned, letting herself collapse on the soft king bed.

            “ _Yes_ ,” she messaged back, a lie but one that was necessary to get him off her back. He messages her again, signing off with another “ _I love you_ ,” and Emma had never had a stronger urge to hurl her phone outside the window.

            “Everything is booked, _of-fucking-course_!” Killian cries exasperatedly once he’s back inside the room.

            “What about the ones booked for the students’ tomorrow?”

            “There’s people in them, they check out tomorrow morning.”

            “Ah,” Emma responds.

            “You take the bed,” Killian says gruffly, taking a couple of pillows from the bed, “I’ll sleep on the floor.”

            “Like hell you are,” Emma snaps at him, “You drove all the way out here for hours, I’m not letting you sleep on the floor.”

            “It’s not right,” Killian starts but whatever protest he was going to continue with, is silenced by the glare Emma directed at him.

            “Killian,” she starts, “This bed is huge, we’re friends, we’re both involved with other people, and my reputation will not be besmirched because we share a bed for two nights. It’s fine.”

            “You’re sure?” He asks, clutching the pillow to his chest.

            “Positive,” Emma smiles at him and pats the mattress next to her. “Now, do you want to shower first or should I?”

            “You go ahead,” he answers.

***

            Once she’s done with the shower, Emma finds Killian thumbing through his smartphone, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration as he’s scrolling down whatever he’s reading. He’s still in the same clothes he was wearing earlier, the dark wash jeans hanging low on his hips—the band of his underwear peeking over them—his leather jacket is still on but it’s open wide at the bottom, falling loosely on either side of his torso and allowing the shirt he wears—a navy one with Keith Richard’s face and the words _“Keith Richards for President”_ emblazoned on the front. As she stands across from him, she feels strangely naked in her pajamas. She had only brought her comfiest, and also flimsiest, white oversized sweatshirt that almost completely covered an obscenely tiny pair of shorts but in her defense, her longer fleece pajama pants were dirty and she didn’t foresee having to share a bed with him.

            “Bathroom is all yours,” Emma says brightly, trying to cover-up just how nervous she had started to feel once she realized that she had offered to share a bed with Killian. Killian, her friend whom she was undeniably and increasingly infatuated with.

            _Awesome,_ she thought sarcastically _, job well done, Emma._

Killian simply stares at her, momentarily taken aback by her attire, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows thickly.

            “Somehow I don’t think this will go over well with your Irishman,” he says thickly, his eyebrows raised and his hand doing a sweeping gesture at her.

            “I have pants,” Emma offers defensively, rolling her eyes as she lifts the hem of her sweatshirt. Killian shakes his head, but acquiesces and bends down to rummage through his backpack for his pajamas and his toiletries. “Look if it bothers you that much, we can order a cot tomorrow. It’s too late for any of that tonight, so we’re sharing the bed whether you like it or not.” She feels her head cock at the sight of him bending over in front of her and she can’t help but think that _she’s_ the one who should be made to sleep in the cot.

            “Has anyone ever told you that you’re incredibly bossy?” He taunts as he straightens up. Toiletries and clothes in hand, he makes his way to where she stands with her hands crossed against her chest and her face pursed in a scowl. “I have to say I kind of like it,” he grins cheekily at her, his hand outstretched towards her and threading the end of her braid through his thumb and forefinger before tugging at it roughly and scampering off to the bathroom to escape her retaliation.

            She takes it back, she hates him— _loathes entirely_.

***

            Exhaustion overwhelmed her completely once she slid into the cool sheets and the comfort of the mattress, making Emma fall asleep almost instantly as her head fell on the pillow. She slept like a rock, unable to feel the moment Killian slipped into the bed next to her, and completely unaware that they had gravitated towards each other during the night.

            The alarm clock on both their phones go off simultaneously, startling both Killian and Emma awake at the same time. In a split second she notices the strange, but not unwelcome, position they awoke in. Her mind tries to memorize the sensation of his arms around her and the feeling of the coarse hair and the warm skin of his chest underneath the splayed fingers that had somehow found their way underneath his shirt. She was tucked against his warm chest, his chin resting on the crown of her head, and his legs trapping one of her own between his.

            There’s a light squeeze between them—miniscule and barely noticeable, but still _there_ —before they both scatter off each other as if electrocuted. Unruly desire surges through her as she takes him in—the way his hair stood up in every direction, the scruff that was a slightly darker shade this morning, the way his blue eyes were blown out in amazement, (scared amazement, _but still_ ). She finds herself unfathomably attracted to the fact that he woke up next to her in bed, her mind only thinking about how she wanted to straddle his lap, make out with him and let him make her his.

            “Sorry,” she mumbles, shaking her head.

            “S’quite alright,” he says as he waves his hand dismissively. “It was a rather cold night.”

            “Yeah,” Emma nods as she tugs at her braid nervously, wishing that the mortification she felt—or the sudden arousal that she felt coating her folds—didn’t show up on her face. “Did you want to use the bathroom first?” she asks him, stepping out of the bed and unable to look at him.

            “Nah, you go ahead,” he says, his voice flustered. At the tone of his voice, Emma turns around to look at him inquisitively, and finds him sitting up against the headrest, his phone in his hand and a cushion covering his lap.

            _Well_ , she thinks, _at least I wasn’t the only one._

***

            Who would have thought that spending time in a plantation would be so exhausting? Seriously, this place was marketed to be relaxing, and Emma guesses it would be if they had just gone to stay at the plantation and not taken advantage of every little tour the place had to offer.

            Save for their little mishap once they woke up, the day had started out leisurely. Awkwardly they scuffled around each other, not quite avoiding each other, but definitely embarrassed of waking up tangled in each other’s arms. They had breakfast in near silence, ordered a cot to be sent to the room, and waited on the porch till Professor Mills and the students arrived at the location.

            Chaperoning had turned out to be busy work, as it turned out that Professor Mills was only planning on going on the general tours of the Big House, cemetery, and sugar cane fields, but had no intention of riding a horse through the estate’s acreage. Emma wanted desperately to take a nap after the buffet but they were ushered out of the Big House by their tour-guide and taken out to the sugar cane field.

            They walk through a maze made out of the tall stalks of sugarcane, Killian by her side but still not saying much.

            _You had to go and make it weird_ , Emma chastises herself.

            _Except he was the one with the boner_ , her Ruby conscience countered.

            _This is true_.

            It’s only when they’re back in their room that she feels like the air has cleared between them. They shared jokes as they made the rounds through all of the student’s rooms—it was mostly Emma commenting that that was how being a Prefect at Hogwarts must have felt like—checking to see if they were adhering to the rules and in the rooms they were supposed to be in.

            “Have you ever felt so tired that you can’t sleep?” Emma sighs, as she lies on the bed her head propped on her hand as she looks over at Killian who sits on the very uncomfortably looking cot. “Like, you’re exhausted but you’re too wired from the events of the day to just sit still and relax?”

            “I take it that’s how you’re feeling right now?” Killian asks, his voice tired but amused.

            “A little bit,” she sighs as she plops down on the bed.

            “What would you like me to do about it?” He asks her, as he starts folding his clothes and packing them back into his bag.

            “Just talk to me,” Emma sighs. She feels so tired that her eyes feel almost as heavy as her limbs.

            “About what?”

            Emma sighs again, and decides to roll off the bed. She walks slowly towards the cot, the fluffy sucks she wears skidding slightly on the hardwood floors beneath her feet.

            “Let’s play Twenty Questions,” she states before siting on the cot. She scowls as a spring digs uncomfortably into her ass, but she doesn’t move.

            “You get three questions,” he mutters, his voice slightly aggravated. “I, unlike you, am feeling incredibly knackered and I’m certain that I’m five seconds from passing out.” Killian lifts his feet onto the cot, flinching slightly as a spring undoubtedly digs into his own ass when he moves on the three-inch thick slab of fabric that is a poor excuse for a mattress.

            “Are you really going to sleep on this tonight?” Emma asks.

            “Yes, and I’m counting that as your first question.”

            Emma glares at him.

            “We’re playing on the bed,” she demands.

            “Fine, but I’m not sleeping on it. We don’t need a repeat of this morning,” he grumbles, following her and throwing himself unceremoniously onto the bed.

            “Oh come on,” Emma teases, flicking him on the shoulder. “You know you liked it.”

            “ _Emma_ ,” he warns.

            “Fine, fine,” she laughs. “You’ll sleep on the cot, but I’m not driving tomorrow just because you had a shitty night because you chose to sleep on that bed of springs rather than risk waking up to find yourself spooning me.”

            “Ask your question,” he deadpans, and Emma knows that he’s trying to seem unfazed by her comment, but she can see a smirk forming on his full lips.

            “What’s your favorite color?” she asks. It’s the first question that comes to mind, a stupid question by all intents and purposes, but it’s the first one that she thinks of and she blurts it out.

            “Really? That’s the best you’ve got?” he asks incredulous, and this time he does smirk.

            “Yes,” Emma snaps. “Now answer the question, Jones.”

            “Oh, _Jones_ , is it now?” he laughs.

            “ _Answer it._ ”

            “Red,” he answers without skipping a beat, tucking his knees up to his chest and resting his chin on them. “What’s yours?” he asks, his blue eyes twinkling.

            “Blue,” she answers confidently, and _no_ , it’s not because his eyes are that color. As a matter of fact, she’s always been fond of the color and every shade in its spectrum.

            “You always have to go against me, don’t you?” He asks as he plops down on the mattress and his arms shoot up to rest his head on his hands.

            “It’s my life’s mission,” Emma nods, as she looks down at him.

            “Last question Swan,” he grins, “You better make it a good one.”

            “No, I still have two,” Emma counters, directing a glare at him and poking him just below the fourth rib. Killian winces before he rolls his eyes at her and outstretches his right hand to flick her on her earlobe.

            “ _No_. I told you I was counting the other one as a question and you agreed to it.”

            “Fine,” Emma nearly snarls, her earlobe still tender from where he had flicked her. She mulls over a good question, one that might get them talking past one word answers and an insurmountable amount of teasing. She lets herself fall back onto the plushy mattress, the sheets are still cool against her worn-out muscles. Closing her eyes she wonders if he’d answer something personal, something like what she ends up asking. “What’s your biggest fear?”

            “Now there’s a question!” He grins enthusiastically, before looking up at the ceiling to mull over his answer. Emma watches him intently, waiting for his answer, as he threads his left hand through his hair. She notices a jagged scar that stems from his wrist to his forearm, it’s a deep pink and most likely years old or so—she makes a mental note to ask him about it some other time.

            “Yeah, okay. So, answer it,” Emma prods impatiently.

            “Death,” he answers confidently, still looking up at the ceiling. “Not the act itself, I’m not really afraid of dying. I’m afraid of what comes after that.”

            “How so?” She asks him, turning her body and attention completely towards him as she tucks her knees up to her stomach and her hands underneath her chin.

            “Well, I don’t quite fancy the idea of living this incredible life for decades and then dying and then just becoming nothing, you know?” He answers as he turns towards her and mirrors her position.

            “Yeah, that makes sense,” she breathes. She’s so close to him that if she were to scoot forward an inch, her face would be parallel to his and their lips mere centimeters apart.

            “Does it?” Killian asks her just as softly, his black pupils dilated wide.

            “I mean…you won’t know till you get there but, yeah,” Emma nods and her voice is still low and breathy. “Like, who tells your story? What is the point of living and achieving all these great things during your lifetime if you’re just going to be nothing at the end of it?”

            “Exactly,” Killian grins and once again she is elated that she’s the reason behind the smile.

            “A valid fear.” Emma tells him proudly.

            “Thank you for your validation,” he chuckles, color rushing to the apples of his cheeks. “You know how strongly I seek it.”

            “I know,” Emma teases, her green eyes bright as she reaches out to him instinctively to brush away the amount of fringe that had fallen into his line of vision and brushing it back with her fingers. “It gives you purpose, far be it from me to deprive you of it.”

            “What are you afraid of, Swan?” Killian asks quietly.

            “Honestly?”

            “No, please lie to me,” he answers sarcastically, but still grinning at her.

            “Shut up,” Emma responds.

            “Make me,” he taunts, and the way his tongue slides along the length of his bottom lip is a risk that challenges the mood in the room.

            “I’m afraid of not knowing,” Emma answers him, deciding to play it safe rather than acquiesce to his challenge.

            Killian knits his eyebrows.

            “What do you mean?”

            “It’s just a handful of fears that kind of jumble up into one big amalgam of fear of the unknown, I guess.” Emma shrugs to cover up the fact that her heart felt like beating out of her chest right now because there it was all out in the open. She had taken the lid off of the can of worms that contained her anxieties, and dumped the contents of a metaphorical purse on the couch and invited him into her problems.

            “Amalgam, that’s a fancy word for you,” Killian says, and leave it to him to tease her when she’s on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

            “So says the human thesaurus,” she snaps, her eye roll so thorough that her eyes threatened to roll right out of her head. “Can I finish?”

            “Be my guest,” he nods, grinning smugly at her.

            “I don’t like it when I don’t have control over things. I make plans to plan things out, even though I know it’s stupid to try to plan out every little detail when there’s like a huge percent chance that it’ll go the other way,” Emma explains, her voice shaky and nervous but as she keeps talking she feels a weight being lifted off of her shoulders. “I’m afraid of not knowing what’s going to happen and having no control over it. I’m afraid of letting people in because I don’t know if they’re being truthful. I can’t trust someone’s word that they won’t leave, because I don’t know if that’s the truth.” She’s heaving, her breaths coming out in short breaths because even now, even as she explains her true fears to him she feels the anxiety that stems from her loss of control threatening to cripple her entirely.

            “You’ll drive yourself insane thinking that way, love,” Killian responds, his arm stretching out towards her and pulling her close to him and lazily rubbing his hand soothingly against the middle of her back. She finds herself nuzzling her face against his neck, feeling comfortable in his embrace—feeling at home, and feeling complete.

            “Trust me, I know,” She mumbles, her voice muffled by his embrace and she feels his warm skin erupt in goose bumps as her breath makes contact with it. “It’s why I’m on anxiety medication.”

            “Look, I know it’s hard to let people in and feel like you’re losing control over everything, but the best that you can do is take everything one day at a time, cross those bridges that frighten you when you get to them,” he says, his voice warm and comforting next to her ear. “Trust me when I say that I’ll not leave you.” He pulls away from her, and she really shouldn’t be so disappointed at the loss of contact. Emma smiles ruefully as he inches away from her, his arms stretching wide above him as a yawn rakes throughout his entire body.

            “You should get back to your cot,” she tells him as he turns towards her and gives her a lazy smile.

            “I should,” he yawns again before adding, “If only we lived in a world of ‘shoulds’.”

            “Are you going to?”

            “I’m quite comfortable here, actually,” he responds, and his voice is steadily getting slower as exhaustion threatens to overcome his senses completely. Together they lift up the sheets and settle underneath the comforter, the cool textile resting against warm skin.

            “What if we wake up spooning again?” she asks quietly, her own voice feeling sluggish and her eyes drooping in a steady pace.

            She sees him grin.

            “Then we cross that bridge when we get to it,” he teases, his eyes closed and his breath starting to even out.

            The room is colder tonight, for the sole reason that it’s supposed to rain in a few hours. Emma wonders if she could get him to be okay with her cuddling up to him, it makes her feel so complete to be in his arms. She shouldn’t feel that way at all, but it’s the truth.

            “Killian?”

            “Hmm?”

            “Can we cross that bridge now? I’m freezing and you’re a human furnace.” He stays quiet for what seems like an eternity and she half wants to die or make herself sleep on the cot instead.

            “Come on then,” he answers as he lifts up his side of the comforter, allowing her to shimmy up to him. Her back is to his front, Killian acting like the big spoon in the situation with his hand draped across her middle, but they leave about two inches between themselves. “But no funny business, and keep those icicles you call feet away from me,” he mutters, his voice soft but stern against her ears.

            “Goodnight, Killian,” she says, her voice breathy thanks to her laughter.

            “Night, Ems,” he murmurs, his voice sounding as heavy as her eyelids feel. It takes a matter of seconds for both their breathing to even out and for them to fall in a deep, tired slumber.

***

            A blinding white light starts to awaken her, pulsating brightly behind her closed eyelids. Emma feels her eyes flutter open, seemingly against her own will, and a mild panic starts to set in.

            She’s awake now, yes, but she cannot move.

            Instead, Emma struggles to find reason in the sight that’s in front of her. Maybe if she could just turn around and set her eyes on Killian she would be able to ignore the pulsating orb of light that hangs above the vanity and across the room from their shared bed.

            Killian was real, the orb was not.

            It couldn’t be.

            Her mind feels fully awake, but her body doesn’t respond to her brain’s commands. She’s stuck, paralyzed, as she is forced to watch the orb descend towards her, beckoning, calling her towards it.

            “Killian can you see this?” she hears herself say, her voice sounding muffled to her own ears.

            He doesn’t respond. Killian is dead asleep, and it makes her question whether she was dead asleep as well. That was the only logical explanation to all this, wasn’t it? That this was one of those hyper-vivid dreams she always had, brought upon by exhaustion and her anxiety, and she was going to wake up tomorrow morning and wouldn’t remember any of it. Yes, that seems like a good explanation as any, except she’s been taking her Xanax religiously, and she hasn’t had one of these dreams since she was released from the hospital. No, try as she might to deny it, there was no doubt in her mind that she was awake. She couldn’t deny that a sudden chill had descended in the room, enveloping her in it, and making her wish that she could seek out Killian’s warmth just as she had last night. The air was thick around her, making it hard to breathe, and that the room was engulfed in an eerie silence, so still that you could hear a pin drop.

            Emma’s chest heaves quickly and the orb seems to pulsate brightly as it notices that Emma is cognizant of its presence. That’s so stupid, it’s an orb of light. It can’t _notice_ that she’s awake, there’s no consistence to it, there’s no structure to it, there’s no validity. Nonetheless, Emma watches it entranced as it travels towards her, fear prickling at her skin, making the hairs on the top of her neck stand on edge. The orb, ever effervescent, keeps its path towards the bed, towards her, until it stops in the center of the bed and eerie shadows splay on the canopy above them. Mesmerized, like a cicada to a swinging porch light on a humid summer day, Emma watches the orb as it seems to ponder to which person it should go to, which is stupid considering that it’s a ball of light and balls of light don’t ponder. Still, the it seems to make up its mind as it travels towards Killian, circling him methodically, almost as if the orb was equally mesmerized by him as Emma was by it. The orb shines brighter now, if possible, the light illuminating the entire room. Emma, now able to at least crane her neck, watches as Killian scowls underneath the blinding light.

            “Stay away from him,” she hears herself say, a fierce protective reaction stemming from deep in her chest.

            The orb dims slightly and turns towards her, little specks of orange light now weaved throughout the predominantly blue and white lights. If Emma had another response for it, it dies in her throat as she sees the orb move quickly towards her until it stills above her face. Emma shuts her eyes, her eyesight sensitive to the brightness of it. She doesn’t know what she’s expecting but whatever it is, it doesn’t happen. She squints one eye open, and the orb is still stilled above her, waiting.

            “What do you want from me?” Emma asks. The orb simply starts to travel away from her and towards the door. Emma shakes her head. “I’m not following you,” she says. Light throbs out again, more orange and reds in the sphere, and Emma recognizes the sentiment immediately as anger. Which, again, is a stupid thing to think seeing as balls of light do not get angry.

            “Get mad at me all you want, I’m not going anywhere,” Emma crosses her arms against her chest, thankful that she’s allowed to move again. Emma swings her legs out of her side of the bed and perches herself resolutely on the mattress. An incredulous bubble of laughter travels up and escapes from her mouth as she finds herself, strangely, in what’s basically an impasse with an artificially intelligent ball of light. The orb shines bright orange again at this, apparently taking Emma’s laughter as a personal offense. In a blink of an eye, the flash of light jets towards Emma and it seeps through her body.

            An odd sense of peace settles in Emma’s entire being as her eyes glass over. The room changes around her, the lights flickering on, Killian no longer in the bed, and outside she can see the sky changing rapidly in what looks like a time-lapse in reverse. Specters of people flit around her, their clothes becoming increasingly more outdated. It goes on for what it seems like hours, but in reality it stopped as soon as it started.

            Her feet patter expertly on the floor as she exits the room. The hallways, earlier lit with bright electricity, are now lit with gas lamps their dim lighting casting shadows all around her. Emma looks without seeing, her mind muted to her disbelief and instead open to watching the scenes unravel ahead of her. She hears a ragtime jazz song. _Tiger Rag_ it’s called, and she knows she’s danced it before, but her heart hurts and she never wants to dance to that tune again. Emma feels herself anxious, as she takes on the commotion downstairs. There are people, entirely too many people, downstairs and she knows they’re waiting for her.

            This party was for her after all.

            She brings her hand up to twirl the ring she carries looped around her necklace, finding peace and solace in it but also so much pain. It had been two years since he passed, but if death wasn’t enough to make her let go, then an impending marriage wouldn’t be enough either. The light catches on the deep blue tanzanite, a perfect match to her midnight blue dress. She smiles ruefully at the memory. Funny, how the last time she had gotten engaged she was completely bare as the day she was born, her hair matted with sweat around her forehead and cascading loosely atop her back. But today, as she’s supposed to celebrate her new engagement, she was dressed in an intricate drop-waist gown, embellished with navy and gold rhinestones, a thick gold lamé headband strapped across the finger-wave curls that covered her forehead. Funny, how she felt more complete then, than she ever will again, but perhaps that’s what happens when you slice your soul in three parts and your heart is completely shattered, you never get to feel anything to it’s full potential ever again.

            Emma walks purposefully, opting to use the service hallways to exit the house. She will deal with everyone later, but right now she cannot trust herself to play the part of a blushing bride when she feels worse about selling her soul to a rich husband, than she did when she actually sold her soul to the Loa. She leaves her shoes on the back porch, and smiles soundly as her feet hit the damp earth, the dewy grass filtering through her toes.

            Emma feels the orb pulsating warmly from inside her chest, leading her, guiding her to the truth, and so she starts walking. A quick, unmeasured stride, that Emma feels she’s taken before. It’s cold out, but the orb’s warmth keeps her from shivering. It does not, however, keep her dry from the rain that had started to fall an hour ago. In her mind’s eye, though, it’s not dark, it’s not winter, and it’s not raining. In her mind’s eye it was dusk, it was late summer, and it was humid but that had not stopped her from grabbing a jacket off the back porch and sliding it on her thin shoulders.

            Emma keeps walking towards her destination, it’s a long walk to the cemetery, and it gives her time to think. Killian wanted her to live life fully, to experience everything, to live enough for the both of them, so she was going to give him that. It had already been decided that after her wedding she and her husband would travel to Paris, and settle down there while he and his friends from the war would dabble in the artistic inclinations they all favored. To them, surrealists they called themselves, all roads led to Paris, and as a doting wife, Emma felt the need to follow. After all, nothing really tied her to Louisiana anymore and her father was eager for her to have a change of venue and start living.

            When she arrives she counts the tombstones out of habit, not because she doesn’t know where his lies. It’s the third to last on the last row, but somehow counting keeps her grounded, keeps her hysteria in check, keeps her from feeling shortness of breath and a deep constriction on her chest. She tries not to let guilt rack her entire body as she presses an apologetic hand on the first tombstone she reaches, the most recent, the one of Captain Liam Jones. She does the same to the second tombstone she reaches, her steps almost faltering as she struggles to maintain her composure. Emma feels apologetic, her entire body weighed down by guilt as she says a silent prayer to the occupant of the second tomb, the one of her sister Elsa.

            “I’m so sorry,” she hears herself say, her voice broken. “I will make this right,” she promises.

            Finally, she reaches his tombstone. Emma wants to collapse, but she stays strong and resilient. At twenty years old, she’s seen so much death and felt so much pain, she has had no other choice but to stay strong.

            “I know what I did was selfish,” she starts, “but I couldn’t leave it all to chance.” A tear rolls down her cheek and she wipes it away. “I don’t love him. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to love again, but he is a nice man and he loves to read the same books you used to read, he’s adventurous and he’s giving me the opportunity to see the world.” Emma sinks down on her knees, grabbing the headstone for support. “That’s what you wanted from me, right? _‘Live and love, my darling, for in the end I know we shall be reunited at last.’_ I just hope you do not hate me for what I’ve done, but you said you’d come back for me and you never did. I told you could not promise me such things, but you did and I believed. I just…I just couldn’t leave it all to chance, Killian.”

            A sob breaks out of her voice as she says his name, but the sound is dwarfed by the massive crackle of lightning that hits an oak tree fifty yards away from her, and the rolling sound of thunder that accompanied it seconds after. Emma jumps back in fear, her ass landing hard on the muddied ground. She looks around bewildered, cold and with absolute no idea as to how she got to the cemetery in the first place. Suddenly she remembers the orb, the blinding ball of light that had seeped itself into her chest and led her out here. Emma looks in front of her, unable to decipher the wordings on the row of tombstones in front of her. She sees a wet handprint on three of the twenty or so in the row she’s in, so she goes towards the first one and attempts to rid the moss out of the name.

            Her heart feels like it’s about to beat out of her chest when she is able to make out the name, _Captain Liam Jones_ , it says. She tries to convince herself that it doesn’t mean anything, that it’s a coincidence. How many John Smiths are there in the world? Surely, there’s more than one Liam Jones. It’s a coincidence, that’s all.

            _You don’t believe in coincidences._

            Breathing heavily and shaking her head she makes her way to the second tombstone, that orb wanted her to follow it, and when she refused it made her go out here. There must be a reason for it. She holds her breath as she tries makes out the inscription on the tombstone, _Elsa LaBoeuf-Jones_ , it read. Elsa LaBoeuf was Emmeline LaBoeuf’s sister, and Emmeline LaBoeuf was the great-great-aunt Emma was named after. The great-great-aunt that Emma’s grandfather said she took after, the Emmeline LaBoeuf who’s portrait hung in the foyer of the Oak Ridge Plantation and looked just like Emma.

            Had Emmeline LaBoeuf been the girl that Ursula had said made a deal with her over a century ago to be reunited with her long-lost lover? Had Emmeline LaBoeuf been the jilted girl that Emma is supposed to be the reincarnation of? And if she is, Emma thinks, then was the ball of light trying to show her who that lover was?

            Emma sighs, tears streaming down her face because she wants this to be a dream, one of those dreams that she wakes up and she has no recollection of it, and just a raging migraine as a souvenir. She guesses the last tombstone, the one that she had woken up in front of, had been the most important. Had been the tombstone of the man she was apparently forced to be with, the man she had allegedly sold her soul for a century ago. Slowly, apprehensively, she reaches out to the headstone and starts to wipe away the moss that has gathered on the stone for decades. She closes her eyes, thinking that she could just walk away from this, she doesn’t have to _know_ who it is. She could just stand up, walk back up to the plantation, hope that Killian doesn’t wake up as she goes into the room and see how muddy and wet she is. She could forget all of this, she either could go down to Ursula and give her anything to give her a clean slate, or down to the nearest liquor store and drink herself into oblivion until she doesn’t remember why she needed to get hammered in the first place.

            She doesn’t have to _know_ , but she wants to. Curiosity killed the cat and it looked like it was going to take Emma Swan right down with it.

            _Lieutenant Killian Jones_ , the stone read and Emma fell back onto her ass again before scrambling back up and running away from the cemetery as fast as her wobbly legs could take her.

Everything is distorted around her as she runs, there are shadows engulfing her eyesight, fear nearly cripples her. She misses the ball of light, she misses the warmth it brought, the comfort. She’s back in time again, only this time there’s only darkness, there’s only fear, there’s only hopelessness and guilt seeping through her entire being. She killed all of them, Liam and Elsa, they’re both dead because of her. They’re dead because she couldn’t let go of Killian, because she had to go ahead and sell her soul, no matter what the cost was. Her blue dress flows with the late summer breeze, the hem dragging across the dirt as the humid hot wind hits her in the face. She hears her name being called out, faintly from afar, no doubt her father and fiancé out looking for her. While her legs carry her across the field, zigzagging through the tall canes, her heart races a mile a minute. A sea of dark green surrounds her, shadows loom everywhere as they’re cast by the canes, Emma is engulfed by the sounds of the thudding her feet make as they rhythmically hit the ground, sounds of her shallow breaths, the sobs that escape from her lips.

Suddenly the sugar canes open up, the length of the field coming to an end, and she sees the river. She sees the small river stream that leads to the Mississippi, its water gleaming with the moon’s reflection. Emma hears her name being called out again, but she shakes her head. She can’t go back to that life, she has to do this. She has an undeniable feeling of resignation, the acceptance that comes with realizing you were selfish and the need to pay the price for your actions. She reaches the stream, which she’s come to recognize as some sort of finish line. She starts grabbing stones and lining her pockets with them, she has to do this, the guilt is too much and she has to make amends, she had to own up to her mistakes. She killed them, her sister and her brother-in-law acted as sacrificial lambs for her selfish choice to be reunited with Killian no matter the consequences. She steps into the stream, the water almost glacial, the current gliding against and around her skin like cold daggers. Her dress is heavier in the water, the weight of the fabric acting as an embodiment of the guilt that weighs down her conscience. Emma’s midriff is inside the water, and she is ready to let the heavy current overtake her when she’s intercepted. When a body much larger and stronger than hers pulls her back onto the ground, hugging her fiercely so she doesn’t fall.

            “I’ve got you, Swan,” the voice murmurs against her ear.

            “Killian?” she asks, her voice small and unsteady. It’s raining again, the dreamlike state she was in gone once more, and she’s anchored to reality by the feeling of Killian’s arms around her waist, his chest against her back, his legs around her own, and the wet grass they’re sitting on.

            “Aye, lass. I’ve got you,” he says, his voice sounding nervous and unsteady as well. “You’re safe now, I’ve got you.” He stands up, one of his hands lingering on her arm, almost as if he’s afraid she’s going to jump into the stream again.

            “What happened?” Emma asks as she takes his hand to pull herself up to standing position. She feels disoriented and doesn’t remember how the hell she got to the stream. Killian doesn’t answer her. Instead, he grabs her hand firmly in his and keeps walking back to the plantation. It’s still raining and the path is dark and muddy through the sugarcanes, but it’s the fastest way back. Emma can barely see anything in front of her, but every so often there’s an opening through the leaves above them and the moonlight shines on his darkened face and she sees him clenching his jaw. He’s angrier than she’s ever seen him. “Killian,” she starts, pulling back on his hand and rooting herself on the spot. She was already soaked through to her bones, and the white t-shirt she had been using as a pajama top probably left nothing to the imagination but she didn’t care, she just needed to know what had happened. “What’s going on? What happened?”

            “I could bloody well ask you the same fucking question!” He lashes out at her, the moonlight hitting him square on his face and Emma notices that he wasn’t angry at all with her, his wide eyes didn’t carry anger but fear. “You almost died, Emma! Had I been a minute late, you would’ve been halfway towards the Gulf by now. What the fuck were you thinking?”

            “I don’t know! I don’t remember how I got out here, I don’t even remember leaving the room!” That was a lie, she remembered seeing his name, his brother’s and Elsa’s name on tombstones, but she wasn’t about to tell him that.

            “You don’t remember anything at all?” he asks, incredulous.

            “No, I swear. I was asleep!” She tells him and she decides that that was partly true. She had been in a dream-like state ever since she left the room, with only one instance in which she was actually aware of her surroundings. The rest, she had no idea what she had seen, what she had heard, or how she got there. All she remembers are the tombstones.

            “Lass, I would have appreciated you telling me that you sleep-walk. That way, I could’ve preemptively bolted the door and spared myself the risk of losing you,” Killian tells her, his voice still frightened, one hand rifling anxiously through his hair and the other still firmly grasping hers.

            “Lose me?” Emma asks breathlessly, and she feels his hand tense around hers, inching to pull back from her grasp. Emma holds on firmly, squeezing his hand reassuringly. She should let go, but she really doesn’t want to.

            “Aye, lose you. I’ve never been more afraid in my entire life,” he says as his free hand comes up to stroke her cheek, and wipe her wet hair off of her face and tuck it behind her ear. As he stares into her eyes, she sees the honesty in his statements, and looking back into his icy stare she sees the fear in his gaze and the hesitation to believe that he got to her on time. Emma gets the feeling that he wants to say more to her, or do something else, because his gaze lingers on her lips for a second too long, but instead he drops his hand from her cheek and says, “We should get you back inside, you’ll need a shower and some warm clothes.”

            “Okay,” she mumbles and she lets him lead the way back towards the plantation. He not kissing her or divulging his feelings for her shouldn’t disappoint her, it was for the best. After all no matter how much she thinks she likes him, she doesn’t even know if she could be able to reciprocate his feelings when all the signs and her gut told her that none of what they felt for each other was real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: leaving me reviews is like leaving cookies for santa!


	11. Chapter Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know! It's taken me almost three months to update and I AM SO SORRY but for some reason this chapter was so hard to write and law school is (spoiler alert) still the seventh circle of hell. 
> 
> Please let me know what you think and I promise that the slow burn is about to end pretty soon :)

Chapter Ten

 

            The mood shifts.

            As they make their way back up d the house, Killian is quiet and so is Emma. His hand is wound tightly around hers, the action being the only thing that anchors her to reality. Her mind is muddled—she still sees the brightness of the orb, still feels the weathered and wet gravestone that bore Killian’s name on the palm of her right hand, and she still feels the guilt and the fear induced by the shadows that loomed all around her, prompting her to unconsciously line her pockets with rocks, step into a freezing stream, and not think twice about letting herself go.

            It’s almost four in the morning and so they manage to slip back into the house unnoticed. They’re dripping on the carpet, and Emma hopes that by the time the staff is up and about the hotel, there isn’t a trail of rainwater leading up to their room anymore. Killian is on autopilot as he opens the door, as he walks her over to the bathroom and starts fussing over the knobs in the tub. Emma watches him silently as he sits on the edge of the tub and tests out the warmth of the water that spews forcibly from the old pipes. She both tries not to mourn the loss of contact when his hand left hers bare, and let her mind wander to what it would feel like to strip him off his wet clothes and share a hot shower together.

            No, when you’re in a platonic relationship, you don’t let your mind wander that far down the rabbit hole.  

            But _God_ does she want to.

            “Will you be alright?” Killian asks her, the first time he’s spoken since she stopped him back at the sugar cane field.

            The question rubs her the wrong way now that exhaustion creeps up to her and she sees the fear and concern etched deep in his dark features. Emma feels the familiar urge to push away from him—to fight him away—as habit starts to overtake choice because, when you’re not used to it, it is so much easier to push away the hurt than it is to let yourself be comforted in the arms of another, and she’s sick and tired of feeling weak and coddled. Rarely ever has she been comforted or coddled by others, at least, not with the same intensity that Killian tends to show her. She knows she shouldn’t let that anger her, but she’s tired and cold, and she doesn’t need him to be worried about her, she doesn’t _want_ him to look at her in that way because none of this is real. She just wants to step inside the shower, let the hot water wash away whatever mixed emotions she was harboring, and get some sleep.

            “To take a shower?” she asks, her green eyes meeting his wide, still frightened blue ones as she schools her features impassively but is unable to mask the irritation from her tone of voice. “Yeah, I think I can handle that on my own.”  

            She sees annoyance flash through his features, and Emma watches as he pats both hands on his soaked flannel pajama pants, steps up and away from the tub, his jaw muscles clenching tightly as he passes by her and mumbles something about her being ‘bloody insufferable.’

            Emma winces as the door shuts loudly after he exits, but she doesn’t have the energy to go back out there and confront him as much as she would ordinarily be willing to do. Instead, she peels off the layers of wet clothing from her tired skin, wringing them out over the sink before she lets them fall into a sopping mound on the linoleum floor. The skin on her arms, chest, and legs puckers up in gooseflesh as her damp skin meets the warm steam that’s readily flowing out of the shower. Underneath the heavy stream of water she finds comfort, the water flow is harsh and the newly acquired scrapes that marred her legs scream in protest, but still there was something about the hot stream of water jetting out of the showerhead and onto her bare skin that comforted her more than anything else ever could.

            Emma lets her mind wander about everything that had happened. Her mind flits through her memories, memories of the orb and the white pulsating light that nearly blinded her in the darkness, the warmth and completeness she felt once it seeped in her skin. Her eyes flutter shut as the water keeps running down her flesh and she tries to remember more of what happened. Yes, there was the orb, the walking outside in the rain, seeing the tombstones, feeling the water of the chilled stream against her body, and there was the undeniable warmth—the undeniable feeling of being _home_ —that came from Killian wrapping his arms around her and pulling her out, of Killian saving her.

            But what happened between all of that? Her mind was like a blank slate, wiped clean of any recollection she might have of what had happened between all those events. She had the dots, yes, but no lines to connect them with.

            _If I could just **remember**_ , she thinks frustrated, but as soon as the thought materializes she tries to shove it away.

            This must be how a jury feels when a lawyer raises an objection and the judge moves to strike the statement from the record and instructs the jury to “un-hear” what they had just, undoubtedly, heard. Try as she might, she cannot un-ring a bell, or strike her thoughts—or in this case, her longing for any inkling of memory—from the record. She wanted to remember, she wanted to make sense out of all of this and connect the dots. But connecting the dots meant relinquishing her denial and giving into Ursula and everything she had said and everything that Emma had tried desperately to bury away from resurfacing back into the light of day.

            A forceful knock on the bathroom door and Killian grumbling something about hypothermia snaps her out of her reverie. Shutting off the water, she steps out of the tub and wraps herself in the white terrycloth towel provided by housekeeping. Emma takes her time drying herself off, brushing her teeth and securing her hair into a messy bun a top of her head, her golden curls quickly coiling around the nape of her neck, her ears and framing the rest of her face. If Killian wanted to be rude to her, by all means he could be rude but he was going to have to wait till she was done.

            Emma opens the door just as Killian was going into another round of forceful knocking. It takes her a second to stop staring at him, to school her startled features back to neutral and pretend that the fact that he stood shirtless in front of her didn’t faze her. But how could it not? There he stood in all his glory, with droplets of the remaining rain water running through the coarse thicket of dark chest hair, sliding down the contours and indentations of his toned, lean torso and towards the thread of dark hair that stemmed from the low-hung waistband of his soaked fleece pants. Killian, too, seems to have trouble to mask the effect she has on him, his eyes widening the minute they laid eyes on her and instinctively traveling down to the rather low neckline provided by the terrycloth towel, even further to her lean legs exposed by the short length of the towel and right back up half a second later with an accompanying blush creeping around his neck.

            Scowling, and with one hand firmly securing the towel around her body, Emma makes her way past him, her damp shoulder colliding purposefully with his upper arm. Killian still stares at her as she crouches down in front of her duffel bag and starts rifling around for some leggings and a clean shirt. A feat that is easier said than done given that she hasn’t done laundry in about three weeks and most of the clothes in her bag had been taken out of her hamper and doused with _Febreeze_ before being unceremoniously stuffed into the bag.

            What? She was running late, it’s finals season, and she is still a kid learning to adult. Just because she’s about to graduate college doesn’t mean that she’s got her life figured out, quite the opposite actually.

            “I’ve, uh, placed some sweatpants on top of the bed just in case you needed to use them,” Killian tells her, his voice a little breathless.

            “Oh, thank you,” Emma responds stiffly, avoiding eye contact with him as she sweeps her gaze over at the bed.

            “No problem,” he returns, his voice flat as he turns around and shuts the door to the bathroom behind him.

            It’s not only until Emma hears the water spewing out of the shower that she finds it easy to breathe again. The tension between them was awkward and all wrong. Emma knew he was scared for her, knew that he must sense that there was something else going on with her, knew that her stint at the stream looked eerily like an attempt on her to take her own life, and she knew—thanks to a slip-up on Liam’s part on a drunken night a handful of weeks ago—that Killian had lost his first girlfriend in quite a similar way.

            It’s only rational that Killian is directing some animosity towards her. Hell, he probably thinks she was lying about the sleepwalking. It was an incredibly sensitive subject for him, and ever since the night Liam shed light on it and Emma had seen how Killian had stormed off towards his bedroom, slammed the door, and refused to come out for the rest of the night, Emma didn’t want to even skirt around the subject. But right now, she didn’t just find herself skirting around the subject, she found herself plunged feet first into it with heavy stones lining her pockets.

            It helped make her understand him. It made her understand why it always seemed that a storm was brewing underneath his gaze, the turbulence that is constantly kept behind his eyes less frightening now that they were tethered to a reason. It helped her make sense of his usage of humor and impropriety in his relationships. When you use humor as a defense mechanism, it lets you be very well liked by your peers but you don’t really get close to many—and that’s the exactly the way you want it, well liked enough to remember for a laugh but not enough to have people worry about you and in turn, want to get close to you. Because when you let people close to you, the more it hurts when you lose them.

            There was a time when Emma didn’t know what brought them together. Sure, they shared similar interests in books, movies, and music, but so they did with countless other people and that didn’t mean they were friends with everyone else with similar interests. But ever since that night, she knows that the reason they were brought together was because they are kindred spirits, both of them knowing loss in similar ways, both small lost children who have never felt like they were enough.

            And now Killian, who cares about her and let her inside his own emotional walls, thinks that she was about to take her life and probably feels like she didn’t think he was good enough company to keep her with the desire to stay alive.

            But she’d never do that. Never in a million years would she even think about taking her life, she just hopes Killian understands her enough to know that what he saw tonight wasn’t the truth.

            She’s braiding her damp hair when Killian exits the bathroom. Lost in her thoughts, she hadn’t noticed that he had shut the water off and finished with his shower. Emma throws a sideways glance at him as she worries her lower lip between her teeth, her hands still attached to the wet locks, the weaving over and under serving as a steady comfort. She tries not to focus on how the towel hangs loosely around his hips, or on the fact that he’s shirtless again and his hair is disheveled, with little droplets of water clinging to the ends of the bangs that fall into his face and threaten to drop onto the carpet below him.

            Emma lies back down on the bed, her knees tucked against her stomach—the fetal position she folds herself into is tight and defensive. She hears him huff and storm back into the bathroom, the door closing behind him more forcefully than he would have done normally. Her eyes feel heavy, exhaustion threatening to overpower her completely, and her lids droop involuntarily, closing until light is blocked out from her vision. She doesn’t know how long her eyes are closed or how long she had drifted into sublime unconsciousness, but it feels like mere seconds later when she wakes to the sound of screeching metal against hardwood floor, and to the sight of Killian pushing the cot to rest against the main door.

            She watches him, her eyebrows knit together and a scowl clearly etched on her features, as he angrily moves about the room, takes the pillows on his side of the bed, forcefully fluffs them, and lets them drop onto the cot.

            “Killian, what are you doing?” her voice croaks out as she watches him pull back the itchy wool covers of the cot and taking a seat on the thin mattress.

            “What does it look like I’m doing?” he answers curtly, lightly punching the pillow some more before laying face up on the mattress, his hands locking themselves behind the nape of his neck and his mouth pressed into a thin line.

            “Are you really going to sleep there?” Emma asks incredulously, her temper flaring slightly at his attitude.

            “Aye,” he replies as he stubbornly closes his eyes and refuses to spare a glance at her. “Next time you decide to go on a midnight stroll, I’d much rather find out immediately rather than when you’re halfway across the fucking property.”

            _That_ hit a nerve.

            “You need to give it a rest, okay?” Emma snaps, glaring at him as she crosses her arms against her chest now that she sits upright on the bed. “It happened, and I’m sorry, but I’m fine and you don’t have to worry anymore.”

            Killian scoffs, uncrossing his arms behind his head so he can turn on his side before looking at her incredulously.

            “What?” Emma asks, feeling uncomfortable under his scrutinizing gaze.

            “You don’t get it, do you?” He asks her, his eyes widening before narrowing accusingly. “I can’t just stop worrying about you, especially not after tonight.”

            “Why because you _care_ about me?” Emma snaps as she swings her legs on the side of the bed and stands up, her voice filled with the anger she’s failed to taper as she walks over to the dresser to grab a glass and fill it with water.

            He doesn’t respond when her back is to him, and she tries to level her voice as she hears him swing his own legs from the cot and his feet pad against the hardwood floor. She feels him stand behind her, his presence looming over her shoulder as palpable as the tension that has hung heavily in the room for the past forty-eight hours; the tension that has only increased ever since they got back.

            “Killian, I don’t need you to take care of me. I can take care of myself,” she tells him as she turns away from the dresser and towards to face him. She keeps her features cold and detached, as she is determined to keep the upper hand in all this, determined to not let him get under her skin, as he so easily tends to do. Killian’s gaze hardly softens at her words. On the contrary, she finds the unmistakable gust of annoyance flit through his features again as he squares off against her.

            “You’re so bloody insufferable did you know that?” he asks her, and Emma can hear a hint of distress in his tone and she wonders just how bad the earlier events had affected him. Was the waver in his voice due to anger and annoyance, or was it still fear and the attempt to hide the anxiety that she had caused him?

            “Yeah, you’ve said it once or twice,” she bites back, clutching the glass so tight in her fist that she feels that it might break under the pressure but she needs something to channel all her focus into other than how bare she feels whenever he looks at her.

            “Because it’s bloody true, Em!” he starts with a shaky breath as he runs his hand through his damp hair, looking almost manic in his frustration. “You keep trying to push me away when all I want to do is help you.”

            “I didn’t ask for you to help me!” She retorts loudly as she resorts to shove her finger forward, poking him in the chest as a means to channel the sudden urge she gets to punch something. She doesn’t need him to be her knight in shining armor, she doesn’t _want_ that, not from him and not from anyone. She’s done well enough on her own for years and she doesn’t need some Brit with a messiah complex to come save her.

            “Oh, yeah? And what if I hadn’t helped you tonight, Em?” he reproaches just as loudly, walking closer to her, and she feels the wood of the dresser press against her back as he traps her between him and the piece of furniture. “What would I have told David, your grandparents, your friends? Should I have just let you take your own life when I was supposed to take care of you?”

            “I’m not yours to take care of!” she almost growls as she pushes against him, her palms flush against his chest—they were too close, far too close. She tries to shove him away but he instead covers her hands with his own and pulls her closer still. His wide blue eyes are an icy stare—it’s the kind of stare that chills you to the bone, that shows too much emotion and far too much depth, the terrifying kind of depth that you encounter when you tread on a frozen body of water, worried that the floor will give in and you’ll be consumed by chilling currents that threaten to pierce your skin like daggers—and she knows now that he wasn’t trying to mask anger earlier. No, she knows now that he’s very much still freaked out by everything that happened and she wishes she could tell him everything, wishes she could explain without sounding like a total lunatic, but she can’t. All she wants is to be able to calm him down, to reassure him that she’s fine, that she didn’t mean to do any of this and fall asleep curled up in his arms for one last night.

            The sounds of their ragged breathing swirl through the air and intertwine themselves with the steady hum of the rain pattering against the windows and the rustle of the trees as the wind howls through the leaves, making them brush against the side of the building. Killian’s hands still grip hers tightly, the palms of his hands warm against her chilled skin. He cocks his head to the right, eyeing her tentatively, reminding her of a predator sizing up his prey, and leans forward towards her. The unmistakable electricity that they share starts crackling up again, almost begging her to close the distance and kiss him once and for all.

            God, _why_ can’t it be easy with him? Why does she always have the unnatural urge to either pull away and fight or completely lunge forward and kiss him until her lips are chapped and raw but there never seems to be any in-between? This friendship between them is a joke, a euphemism if there ever was one, given the fact that she’s filled more with longing and want rather than platonic sentiments.

            She wants him, real or not, she wants to be able to thread her fingers through his hair and feel the warmth of his body around hers every night, she wants to study together and pilfer Mexican food out of each other’s plates. But most of all, she wants to ease the worry off his mind and make him smile, to be the source of his wheezy laughter. She wants everything and the worst part is that she knows he wants it too, but they’re both unavailable, they’re both too scared to take the fall for the other, too stubborn and prideful to do so.        “Aye, you’re right,” he tells her with narrowed eyes and a scathing demeanor. She hadn’t noticed that his mood hasn’t wavered even though she has had a life-altering clarification. That makes two in one night. Emma has half a mind, though, that he’s going to give in and kiss her once she can almost taste the peppermint from his toothpaste when his hot breath tickles her skin, but what he says instead puts an abrupt end to that fantasy. “I suppose that’s a job for Graham, isn’t it?”

            Oh, right. _He’s_ still a thing, her boyfriend.

            “No, it’s not,” she says quietly but forcefully as she yanks her hands out of his grasp, pushing him to the side and walking back towards the bed, suddenly her annoyance back in full force. “And stop saying that I tried to kill myself because that’s not what happened!”

            “Oh, of course!” He retorts derisively as he throws his hands up in the air, the frustration in his voice a match for his mocking tone. “How could I forget? You almost sleepwalked yourself into an untimely death.”

            His sarcastic tone makes Emma realize that he doesn’t believe a single word she’s said, and that _hurts_ because ever since they met, he’s told her that she’s an open book to him, and she’s confided in him things that she’d promised herself she’d never speak aloud. He had asked for trust and she had given it to him, and now when the roles were reversed she couldn’t say the same for him.

            “You don’t believe me,” she says, her shoulders slumping as she wraps her hands around her sunken core. Her body visibly pulling its armor back into place, the walls stacking themselves higher as she feels herself retreat fully behind them.

            “Is that a question or a statement of fact?” Killian snaps as he takes a few steps towards her, watching her warily as she takes a seat on the edge of the blue ottoman at the foot of the bed.

            “Does it matter?” Emma replies, pulling her feet onto the ottoman and hugging her knees close to her chest. “You don’t believe me.”

            “How could I, Emma?” Killian retorts exasperatedly as he surges towards her, kneeling in front of her and she can tell by the way the manic tone had returned that he was still more frightened than angry.

            He places his hands on the top of her knees, his eyes wide and pleading for her to understand him as he asks, “How could I possibly believe that you lined your pockets with rocks and stepped into a freezing stream and didn’t have any recollection nor inclination to do so in the first place?”

            “Because it’s the truth!” Emma replies, her voice coming out hoarse from the events of the night taking their toll on her. She feels the telltale prickle of tears behind her eyes, her emotions in a whirlwind as she realizes that the one person who she cares the most for doesn’t believe her, doesn’t take her at her words, doesn’t realize that she could never do anything to hurt him like he’s been hurt before.

            “I can only go by what I saw you do, Emma!” Killian says, his voice pleading once more, his hands wrapping themselves around hers again. “If I hadn’t been there at that exact time, I would have lost you forever and I can’t—I _can’t_ let that happen again.”

            “I’m not her, Killian,” Emma says softly, her voice dejected as she tries to make him understand what happened without telling him all about voodoo queens, reincarnation, great-aunts that look just like her and gravestones with familiar names. She sees an unmistakable flicker of pain on his features as she alludes to his ex-girlfriend and Emma wishes that she knew more about her, but Killian never mentions her, he never mentions the ghost of the memory that still haunts him. “Believe me when I tell you that I would never in a million years do something like that.”

            “But you did,” he answers flatly, sinking his body back onto his calves before running his hands through his hair and down his face, as if he was trying to rub away the exhaustion and disbelief.

            It kills her that he doesn’t believe her.

            “You don’t believe me, that’s fine,” Emma replies coldly, her own hands rubbing into her tired face before pinching the bridge of her nose to gather her wits. “But it’s the truth, regardless of whether you take my word for it or not. And when it comes to you ‘ _letting_ it happen again,’ if drowning myself was what I actually wanted, then that would have been _my_ choice and it wouldn’t have been up to you dictate whether you should have _let_ it happen or not. I’m not yours to save, or mourn, or make decisions for.”

            Killian looks at her, the anger flashing through his features as quick as disbelief and fear had done before, and Emma can’t decide if the fact that he has as quick an emotional rebound rate as she has is a good thing or a bad one.

            “Aye, I suppose if that’s how you want it,” Killian responds scathingly, the word ‘ungrateful’ hanging high in the air between them, her reluctance to let him help her—let him _care_ for her—being the clear motivating feeling behind his anger. “Then perhaps next time it would be better if you drown.”

            The words feel like a slap on her face but in hindsight, she had asked for them. This isn’t the first time that she’s fought with Killian and from the looks of it, it certainly won’t be the last. She’s prodded him before, she’s hurt him before, and by now she should be used to the knowledge that he’s not one to back down from her. No, if Emma pushes then Killian will most certainly push back, and if she’s determined to hurt then he’s not going to just sit back and take it. No, she should know by know that Killian wasn’t like that, she should know by now that he was going to retaliate with as much force as she used.

            Emma nods at him, her lower lip pulled tight between her teeth as she tries to fight off the unmistakable burning at the tip of her nose—the telltale sign that she was about four seconds from having her eyes well up and only moments away from crying. She stands up, patting her hands on the tops of her thighs much like he had before she took a shower, and takes a good look at him. She wants to fight back, but she’s tired, _she’s so tired_ , so instead she nods again, her brain unable to complete a coherent thought—a good comeback to leave her with the upper hand.

            She waves the metaphorical white flag, and resigns.

            “Swan,” he calls after her softly, dejection, concern, and guilt all noticeable in his voice.

            Emma ignores his call, walking straight into bed and covering herself with the rich, soft comforter after she slides into the mattress. With her back to him, she tucks her knees back into her chest, her fetal position tighter and more closed off than it had been before.

            “Emma,” he starts again, the same guilt still present in his voice. “Love, I’m…” he trails off and Emma pulls the comforter tighter around her, blocking the light from the room, blocking the sounds of the rain that pattered faintly against the window pane, and blocking him from her presence. “I didn’t mean it,” she hears him says softly.

            “Fuck off, Killian,” is all she answers back, a lackluster comeback if there ever was any, but one that still pierces the right target.

***

            Emma barely sleeps.

            Instead, all night she tossed an turned, never once falling fully asleep as vibrant images came together in her subconscious—images of flashy parties and exquisite dresses, of wedding receptions and church bells ringing, of a faceless husband and the overwhelming feeling of grief and guilt hanging heavy on her shoulders. When she wakes she feels more tired than when she fell asleep—her limbs feel heavy, her throat dry and scratchy, and the cuts and scrapes she sported as a consequence to her late night excursion seemed to scream bloody murder as her legs rubbed against the sheets, the cuts still stinging painfully. She is immediately wary about the awkwardness that would surely loom between her and Killian today, but as she opens her eyes and reluctantly turns around, she doesn’t see him in his cot.

            Emma lifts herself up to her forearms and as she scans the room quickly Killian doesn’t seem to be in the room. She notices, though, that his belongings are already packed and neatly placed by the door—which incidentally is no longer barricaded by the cot—and she surmises that Killian must be downstairs getting breakfast or sorting out the checkout at the front desk. And with the realization that they’re scheduled to leave in the next hour, Emma fights the urge to stay cozied into the warmth of the bed and opts to get the day started.

            Her heart jumps into her throat when she notices him open the door to the bedroom some twenty minutes later. They both stop what they’re doing, with him standing awkwardly at the threshold of the room, a steaming mug in his hand, and her at the foot of the bed with a pair of underwear she was about to fold in hers. They stare at each other for what feels like an eternity, and it’s not until Emma offers him a ghost of a smile that Killian’s shoulders seem to relax and he steps inside the room.

            “Good morning,” he says quietly, placing the mug on her bedside table. “I’ve brought you some coffee,” he offers lamely, his hand shooting up to scratch the nape of his neck. “I’m afraid there wasn’t any hot chocolate.”

            “Thank you,” Emma answers him just as meekly, her fingers trembling slightly as she zips up her duffle bag. She swings the bag over her shoulder and walks towards the door, her eyes narrowed in on the floor and unwilling to look up.

            “Em,” Killian starts tentatively. “I want to apologize.”

            “It’s fine,” she deflects, tucking a stray curl behind her ear and walking towards the bathroom to pick up her toiletries. It’s far too early for them to have this conversation.

            “No, it’s not,” he says softly as he leans against the doorframe, his eyes sweeping over her warily as if he were trying to gauge her reaction. “My behavior last night…what I said to you…it wasn’t acceptable.”

            “Killian,” she sighs, her right thumb and forefinger digging anxiously on the hangnail from her left thumb. “It’s really alright,” she sighs again, looking up at him through her eyelashes, blue gaze meeting green head on, sincerity and pain locked between both stares.

            “You’ll fight me on everything, won’t you?” he says, his voice soft and teasing as he tries to lighten the mood by offering her a shy grin.

            The smile she returns is rueful and if she weren’t as tired, as uncomfortable with such a heavy topic so early in the day, she would hear him out, accept his apology and try to furnish one of her own. But now, while the sun is barely up and she still has to check the rest of the room to see if she’s not leaving anything behind, rally the half-dozen students that stayed over at the plantation till they can finally make their way back to New Orleans, talking about last night is the last thing on Emma’s mind.

            “I just…I’d rather not talk about it right now, okay?” she asks him, walking over to him and clasping his empty hand in hers. His fingers curl around hers, the palm of his hand warm and welcoming against her chilled skin. “I promise that we can talk about it later, but now I just want to go home.”

            His wide eyes meet hers and she finds herself lost in the seemingly endless pools of light blue, gold flecks appearing in his irises when the sun starts to shine in through the windows and reflect in his gaze. It’s one of those moments when she feels time stop, when he looks at her like he can read her as easily as a book, picking out her emotions one by one and choosing to respect her wishes rather than to fight back. She guesses that he’s tired of fighting too, and that he has one foot off the ground but not quite ready to fall headfirst into whatever it is that they have.

            “Sure,” he nods at her, his voice somber and his eyes downcast as he drops her hand from his grip. “I’ll just start loading the van, then.”

            She watches as he walks away, his shoulders too stiff to look comfortable and she assumes that if he were to slouch a bit his posture would match how he seemed void of emotion when he had answered her.

            God, _what_ is wrong with her? Is this supposed to be the happy medium that she was frantically searching for last night? Was this hybrid of grief and numbness to be the place in between her wanting to punch Killian in the gut and her wanting to feel the press of his lips against her own, to feel his tongue battling hers for dominance and his teeth dragging her lower lip out, flesh trapped inside an ever-growing and ever-teasing, completely devilish grin?

            It can’t be.

            She continues to pack, checking every nook and cranny of the room twice for any trace of belongings that might have slipped underneath the furniture, and she surmises that whatever prompted her lack of conversation just now was due to residual hurt from his words last night, residual embarrassment from her actions last night, and old habits of ignoring pressing problems until she just can’t anymore. The feel of the tiles underneath her knees is cold and unwelcome as she kneels in front of the bathroom sink to look under the cabinets. The faint glint of metal catches her eye as she looks underneath the wooden cupboard and she instantly recognizes it as the chain that Killian wears tucked into his shirt. She slides her hand underneath the cabinet, wincing slightly at the feel of dirt and dust on her skin, until her slender fingers wrap around the chain and pull it out. She’s surprised to find a ring attached to the chain, and immediately thinks that it was breathtaking, white gold with diamonds weaved around a deep blue gemstone, but whether sapphire or tanzanite she’s not sure.

            For some reason, she finds herself slipping the ring onto her finger, her eyebrows raised and cheeks flushed when she sees that it fits perfectly on her. It’s not too snug or too loose, and instead it just feels perfect. It’s weird to feel attached to such an inanimate object, but Emma feels just that as she slips it off her finger and swoops the chain around her neck, the ring settling between her breasts, the weight of the ring on her chest strangely familiar.

            She stands and heads out to the bedroom, and after giving the room a final swoop with her eyes, she slides her bag over her shoulder and heads down the stairs and towards the front desk.

            They end up leaving the plantation a little after eight, all six students—half of them the sophomores that form Killian’s fan club—buckled into the backseats of the van. The van sways on the gravel and through the grooves of pavement underneath them, the images of swampland and the early-rising sun splayed across bald cypress trees and brackish marsh blending together in her vision as Killian drives them back to New Orleans. The morning fog is quickly dissipating around them, making the brilliant blue sky visible above them, but in the warmth of the heated van Emma feels her eyes droop slightly, her eyelids still heavy and her limbs still tired from the combination of how rough last night was and how little she actually got to sleep.

            She wills herself awake for Killian’s sake. He’s visibly tired too, dark circles prominent in the skin under his blue eyes, which now looked muted and bloodshot. She stares at him and at how tense he seems, his knuckles white as he grips the steering wheel tightly, his back rigid against the tan leather seat, and the muscle in his jaw visible as he clenches his mouth. He’s either trying to keep himself awake or still feeling hurt, she muses, her eyes drooping again. Though both plausible but Emma thinks that feeling hurt is much more probable. After all, he hadn’t solely brought upon their fight last night and his lashing out was something that she had instigated by bringing up memories of his ex-girlfriend and pushing him away again. She hadn’t even thanked him for pulling her out of the stream last night, she had been so confused, so tired, and then so angry that she never stopped to think that Killian had saved her life last night and that she ought to be grateful for it.

            But had she thanked him?

            No, she hadn’t.

            No, instead she had chosen to revert back to her old ways, to hurt, to instigate, to take the heat off herself and attack before being attacked. He saved her life and she had pushed him away not once, but twice, because she wasn’t entirely welcoming this morning either.

            He had called her prickly once, earlier back in August, and she scoffs mentally at the memory as she thinks that ‘prickly’ would be putting her attitude mildly and ‘ungrateful bitch’ would be much more appropriate given the circumstances. Her phone buzzes in her hand and as she reads Elsa’s text message she finds that maybe it was time she held out her own metaphorical olive branch and try to put this whole ordeal behind them.

            “Elsa is asking if we’d like to join her and Liam for brunch,” she speaks out, her voice soft and tentative. Killian gives her a sideways glance, and she really should control her reactions when it comes to him locking eyes with her, because being in a relationship with someone other than the person that makes butterflies stir in the pit of your stomach isn’t really socially acceptable.

            “I’m not sure that would be a great idea,” he answers stiffly, gripping the steering wheel even tighter.

            “You’re going to break the wheel,” Emma tells him, a smirk on her face, and it feels good to see the corners of his lips turn up at her response.

            “Do you want me to go?” He asks her, his blue eyes boring into her green gaze, his body still tense as he tries to gauge the reason behind her change of attitude.

            “To brunch?” Emma asks absentmindedly and his hopeful gaze deadpans.

            “No, to Neverland,” he teases, rolling his eyes at her. “Aye, Swan, to brunch.”

            “Of course I do, why would you ask that?” She counters, deciding to ignore his obvious attempt at using humor to deflect his insecurity after her earlier rejection.

            What? She knows his weakness as well as he knows hers.

            “I just didn’t think we were—”

            “We are fine,” Emma cuts him off, her arm outstretching to have her hand cover his as she gives his hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze.

            They arrive at New Orleans a little after ten in the morning and after signing off all the students, she and Killian head towards _Granny’s_ where they were meeting Elsa and Liam.

            At _Granny’s_ , brunch had gone as well as it could’ve what with Graham showing up uninvited halfway throughout their second round of mimosas, but to say that it was awkward was putting it mildly. Emma had been beside herself with embarrassment and whatever residual anger was left from the night before was completely redirected towards Graham. She had messaged him where she was out of courtesy and not with the intent of inviting him over for brunch with _her_ friends, an outing that she hadn’t planned and felt like it really was supposed to be just the four of them. Killian had texted Christine where he was—not that Emma was looking over at his phone to see if he was just breaking up with Christine through text because, you know, a girl can only dream—and Christine hadn’t showed up.

            “You can’t just show up at places unannounced!” Emma had told him after brunch had ended. They were in Graham’s car and he was driving her to pick up her bug at school. Emma absentmindedly tugged at the chain that still hung around her neck, Killian’s ring sat steady against her sternum, she hadn’t had the chance to give it back to him what with Graham showing up unannounced. Somehow the thought of her giving Killian back his ring, his very engagement-type looking ring, while in Graham’s presence didn’t really bode well at the moment, so she kept it to return it to its rightful owner away from the prying eyes of her jealous boyfriend.

            “I wanted to surprise you!” Graham had retorted loudly, making Emma roll her eyes as she had turned her head away from him. She had looked up at the storm clouds rolling over the city, and it made her mind instantly conjure up thoughts about her spending yet another cold, rainy night without the comfort of Killian’s warmth around her. God, she needed to stop thinking about him like that but every time she chastises herself she can’t help but imagine him again. In her mind’s eye, she cannot stop imagining the fullness of his lips stretch into sly absentminded smiles when he looks at her when he thinks she isn’t looking, or how his brow furrows into deep concentration, his teeth biting into his lower lip as he reads her work during peer reviews. She can’t help but hope that he means something more in when he goes out of his way to make her feel better, when he wraps his hands around her and pulls her in close, when he cups her cheek with his strong hands and the heat of his skin fuses with the chill on her cheeks creating a comfortable medium of warmth as they touch.

            God, she had it bad.

            “Yeah, right,” Emma had scoffed, rifling her hands through her hair in exasperation. She wanted to break this off right there, but she didn’t want a break up in the middle of finals and she didn’t know how Graham was going to take it. If she had to guess, then she’d say that he wouldn’t take it well, not at all. But damn, all she wanted to do was shout at him, tell him how he suffocated her, how he was so controlling she feels trapped. “God, Graham you know I’m no good at this! I need to be able to do my own thing, I can’t have you just showing up at places and surprising me.”

            “You’re so bleeding selfish,” he had answered her as he pulled into campus and towards the garage at the furthest end of the school where she had directed him to. Emma had sighed again as she turned in her seat to face him.

            “Yes, please, turn this on me again! I’ll be the bad guy again while you victimize yourself,” she had retorted and Graham had simply looked at her incredulously.

            “Excuse me for wanting to see my girlfriend after I hadn’t seen her in three days!” he had shouted, his fist slamming into the steering wheel as his voice shook with anger.

            “I was planning to see you after I finished!” Emma had replied, her voice just as angry and just as loud. Her response had only elicited an eye roll from Graham’s part.

            “Oh aye, after you finished devoting all of your extra time to Killian?” he had asked, no longer able to keep the bitterness from his voice. Emma had simply stared back at him for longer than was necessary till she turned her to face forward, her eyes glassed over as he pulled into the garage.

            “Don’t start this again, we are friends and nothing more,” she had replied quietly, her voice hard and reminiscent of steel.

            “I just don’t see why you can’t talk to me the way you talk to him,” he had started. “You spend all your time with him.”

            “He’s helping me with the GRE, I told you that,” Emma had responded automatically. “He’s my friend, that’s all.” Emma could feel the barriers as they around her, her voice sounding even flatter with each response as she retreated further into her shell at the threat of being hurt again. She had crossed her arms across her chest and let her eyes scan the concrete walls as he drove up and around each floor of the garage, her pride unwilling to bend to Graham.

            “Aye, and last time I checked I’m your boyfriend and I expect to be treated with the respect I deserve.”

            “Cool your fucking jets, Joe DiMaggio!” she had retorted angrily, the last thing she needed was a display of macho pride from him. It was enough that he tried to control her every move, the last thing she needed was for him to add some outdated sense of patriarchal dominance over her, to his already lousy attitude. “You asked me to be your girlfriend knowing that I had only been truly serious with one other guy and that I enjoyed my independence!”

            “Aye but I can’t help but feel that I’m pulling most of the weight in this relationship!” he had replied as he parked in behind her yellow bug, his fist slamming against the steering wheel once more and making Emma flinch.

            “What are you talking about?” she had asked exasperatedly, running her fingers through her hair for what seemed like the fifteenth time in the last ten minutes.

            “I’m talking about the fact that I told you that I loved you more than a month ago and you haven’t said anything back to me!” Graham had shouted, his hand outstretched and cupped around her chin as he dragged her face back to face him.

            “I’m not ready!” Emma had practically growled, her hands having shot up to press against his chest before pushing him off her.

            “Aye, fine. Let that be your excuse if it makes you sleep better at night,” Graham had replied, his voice tight. “I’m starting to believe you’re incapable of loving anyone at all.”

            “Well if that’s what you think, why don’t you just break up with me then?” Emma had responded, her arms clasped even tighter across her chest and her back pressed tightly against the passenger door.

            “Because I love you and I want to spend the rest of my life with you!” he had bit out, his arms reaching out to her and his voice pleading. He had a manic look in his eyes, the look of a desperate man longing for affection, affection that she just couldn’t give him.

            Finals be damned, she needed to break up with him.

            “Graham,” she had started, her eyes closed and her voice soft as she mentally prepared herself to end whatever was left of the relationship right then and there.

            “Aye, I know. You’re not ready,” Graham had groaned, his fists digging into his eye sockets in frustration. “Perhaps if I were Killian you’d be more willing,” he had muttered under his breath, his eyes still closed in frustration.

            “Oh, enough!” she had snapped, grabbing her bag from the floor and stepping out of the car in a matter of seconds.

            “Look, I’m just going to go home okay?” she had told him as she leaned into the car, one hand propping the passenger door open and the other holding onto the roof of the car. “Talk to me when you’ve cooled off.”

            The sound of her name was cut short by her slamming the door to the passenger side and walking briskly to her car.

            Graham was gone before she had even opened her car door.

            It has been nearly two weeks since then and, with both of them dealing with finals, Emma hasn’t been able to talk to him about breaking things off, she’s barely talked to him at all. No, for the past two weeks she has been basically living in the library, only going home to shower and sustain herself on a questionable diet of microwavable macaroni and cheese, Hot Pockets, energy drinks and amphetamines, and sadly breaking off with her boyfriend just wasn’t part of her schedule. But now, with her finals done and her term paper for Mills turned in, she definitely has time to schedule in a breakup. However, with her finals done, her term paper for Mills turned in and it being her twenty-second birthday it is safe to say that Emma Swan is much more content in getting drunk and relying on ignoring the problem as opposed to confronting it head-on instead.

            When you live with Ruby Lucas and you are her designated soul mate and best friend—and coincidentally your birthday falls on the last day of finals—it is only a matter of time till she decides to throw you a house party to celebrate your birthday and wave a hearty good-riddance to the end of the semester. That afternoon, after Ruby had gotten out of her chemistry final, Emma watched from the couch, laptop propped on her lap as the leggy brunette had bounded up to their apartment, threw her book-bag onto the loveseat with a growl, and walked straight into their kitchen where opened the freezer and took out a bottle of king cake flavored Pinnacle vodka.

            “We’re doing shots,” she exclaimed as she opened up the bottle and started pouring the sickly sweet liquid into two shot glasses.

            “ _We_ is a lot of people,” Emma had responded with a scoff, starting off her birthday with Pinnacle would not be a wise decision. In fact, it screamed highly of a recipe for a blackout.

            “You’re not about to give me this shit on your birthday, Emma.” Ruby deadpanned, her eyes narrowing. “I just got out of a brutal exam, I don’t have to worry about school for the next month, and tonight I plan to completely blackout and forget that this semester ever happened,” she continued, listing her words off her fingers before fixing a steely glare on Emma.

            “Fine,” Emma whined, closing her laptop and walking towards the kitchen counter where a gleaming pink shot glass filled to the brim with Pinnacle awaited her. They toasted to Emma’s birthday and after sliding the glass back on the counter, they took simultaneous swigs out of the shot glasses, the syrupy-like liquid burning as it went down Emma’s throat and down to her stomach.

            “Another one?” Ruby had asked merely as a formality since she was already re-filling up Emma’s glass.

            “That’s enough,” Emma replied after taking the second shot, her eyes screwed tight as she processed the taste, she hated vodka. Shaking her head she walked straight towards the fridge and took out the first thing she found to use as a chaser, an already opened can of Arizona Iced Tea.

            “What time are the reservations for tonight?” Ruby asked her, her teeth bared under her gleaming grin and her elbows rested on the counter.

            “Six-thirty, why?” Emma asked, taking another swig of the iced tea to rid the taste of vodka out of her mouth.

            “Oh, you know, I just invited a shit-ton of people over to celebrate you tonight,” she smiled even wider, her voice innocent but her grin feral.

            An incoming text from Graham makes Emma miss Ruby offering her the bottle of Pinnacle as she entices her to take another shot. Emma shakes her head at the text message, wishing that she hadn’t waited until after finals to break up with Graham because that meant he’d still be coming to her birthday dinner tonight.

            “We should be done by nine at the latest,” Emma answered her, taking the vodka out of her friend’s hand and pouring herself another shot.

            “You’re not going to fight me on it?” Ruby had asked her, an elegant and perfectly manicured eyebrow raised in her direction.

            “Not at all,” Emma had replied before lifting the shot glass back to her mouth and downing the vodka in one gulp. A blackout that made her forget everything that happened this past semester wouldn’t be a bad idea at all.

***

            Dinner had been nice but uneventful for the most part. All of her friends were in attendance, Ruby and Leo, Mary Margaret and David, Elsa who was accompanied by Liam, and Killian. It didn’t sit well with her that Killian had brought along Christine even though Emma knew that she’d be there, what with Killian asking if it was okay to bring her a week earlier and Emma’s growing inability to deny him anything. Plus, Emma’s own boyfriend was there, his suffocating presence next to her making her hackles rise up in her back at the feeling of his clammy hand on her leg, his fingers squeezing her flesh tightly, possessively.

            She ate in silence for the most part, her mind mulling over how uncomfortable she felt in Graham’s presence, her inability to figure out what’s keeping her from breaking up with him, and her futile attempts of calming the monster of jealousy that roared in the pit of her stomach every time she heard Killian’s wheezy laugh resulting as a product of Christine’s apparent quick wit. Emma also had zero to no inclination to be at the dinner since her attitude was not in a partying mood and mostly, she felt like a sham sitting around everyone and pretending to be happy and in love and like her life didn’t feel like it was falling apart.

            The shots of vodka that she had taken earlier in the day had a quick effect on turning her mood sour once Graham arrived at her apartment and they ended up having yet another fight before they left. He had gotten her tickets to Ireland for her birthday. More specifically, with the intent of her flying over the Atlantic to stay with his family throughout the rest of her winter break, spend Christmas and New Years in his company. Truly, any other girl in the world would have been amazed at such a gift, but Emma wasn’t.

            She _couldn’t_ be.

            She wasn’t ready for such a commitment, she didn’t think it was fair to fly across the ocean and meet his parents and his family when all she wanted to do was end things with him. It also annoyed the fuck out of her that he keeps ignoring the fact that she’s said _multiple_ times that she isn’t ready to jump into anything so serious but he doesn’t listen. So, Emma had done what she could do best and picked a fight with him. Part of her thinking that, if she prodded enough, if she annoyed enough, he would just get tired with her and dump her right there on the spot.

            He didn’t.

            Of _fucking_ course he didn’t.

            No, he did what he did best whenever Emma started to pull away and pick a fight. He latched on tighter and told her that he loved her yet again. And when that didn’t work—because goddamn it, it never does and he can’t seem to _get_ that—he turned around and victimized himself yet again, his voice pleading as he asked her why she couldn’t just love him the way he needed her to, didn’t she see how much he needed her, wanted her, _loved_ her? And when that didn’t work, well, he pulled out his trump card—the Killian card—as he asked her why did she feel the need to push him away but have the ability to have such a close relationship with Killian. He asked her why was it that Killian got to meet her family instead of him, every time his voice sounding more frantic, his eyes more manic, his fists clenched and sometimes hitting his own flesh to release some of his pent up anger.

            She was completely over it, over whatever semblance of a relationship she had left with Graham, and she was about to tell him that it was over when she heard the doorbell and had to turn to open the door. Emma brushed off the inquisitive stare she got from Mary Margaret as she greeted her and David, before grabbing her leather jacket and exiting her apartment with Graham in tow.

            Later that night, Graham leaves in a huff, throwing her gift—an envelope with a flight confirmation email printed out inside of it—on the kitchen counter. Emma doesn’t doubt that he was unwilling to stay by her unyielding company a second longer, as she rests her hips against the kitchen counter.

            Muffled music from the party that Ruby decided to throw for her wafts into the apartment from the backyard and Emma closes her eyes at the sound of it, relishing in the one moment of peace she’s gotten since she got out of her last exam nearly eight hours ago. The apartment is dark and the only light that shines is the one that streams in through the door that leads to the veranda that overlooks the backyard. Emma sighs as she stretches her neck sideways, the frustration she has felt for the past month taking its toll on her shoulder muscles, and she feels the need to just get back on the relative weightlessness that the earlier shots had made her feel. She had promised herself a blackout and goddamn it, she was going to get one.

            Emma rummages through frozen chicken cutlets and acai smoothie packs that have been in the freezer for months till she finds the bottle of Bacardi 151 that she has been looking for. Grabbing the neck of it she pulls it out and places it on the counter. The seventy-five percent proof alcohol is usually Ruby’s poison but Emma, who prefers Superior or Gold more so than pure battery acid, has been known to take it in dire situations. And tonight, well, tonight feels like it fits the category. Emma finds a shot glass and fills it to the brim, before tossing back the burning liquid, almost gagging as it trickles down her throat. She shudders and winces as she tosses back another shot, her eyes screwed shut as she tries to get over the taste, and pays no attention to the sound of the front-door opening and closing.

            “Hey,” Killian greets, and she wishes that the way that his voice travelled towards her didn’t elicit a swooping sensation deep in her belly as a response.

            “Hey stranger,” she greets in return as she turns towards to face him, her ass pressed firmly against the beige counter that no-doubt dates back to 1986 and her fingers clutched tightly around the neck of the Bacardi bottle.

            “I figured I’d find you here,” he tells her, the softness and quietness of his voice contradicted by the smugly arched eyebrow sitting high on his forehead.

            “Aren’t you the perceptive one?” Emma responds as she turns towards the counter to fill up another shot glass in addition to her own and handing it to him once she’s done. He indulges her and takes the shot glass in his own hand, mumbling a toast to her birthday before clinking his glass to hers, sliding it across the counter, and tossing it back in one quick move. Emma watches him as he takes the time to get used to the assaulting taste on his taste buds; observing as the bright light that streams into the kitchen from the veranda hits him diagonally across his face, the contrast of light and shadow making his eyes look like they’re two different colors—his right eye a vibrant shade of ice blue and his left eye a darker navy. Her eyesight has started to blur slightly with that last shot of rum, but she can still appreciate how handsome he looked in his dark grey v-neck sweater, the collar of the navy blue plaid shirt he was wearing neatly pressed against his neck.

            “Streamlining rum are we? A woman after my own heart,” he says, his hand clutching his heart sarcastically and Emma is about to brazenly respond to his comment when she notices a purplish bruise on his skin right where the neck meets the shoulder.

            “Don’t flatter yourself,” she deflects, her mood suddenly sour as the monster of jealousy once again starts to squirm in the pit of her stomach.

            _Fucking Christine_ , she thinks before chastising her own cowardice. If she hadn’t been so apprehensive— _scared_ , for fuck’s sake, she had been scared—of how forward Killian had been in his attempts at pursuing her, she would have the damn honor to attach her own lips to his neck and that knock-off Disney princess wouldn’t be in the picture.

            “You wound me, lass,” Killian offers again, knocking her out of her reverie.

            “Somehow I think you’ll survive,” Emma deadpans as she crosses her arms across her chest.

            “I’ll try my best,” Killian answers before mimicking her stance. “Now, are you going to keep deflecting or are you going to tell me what’s going on that has you hiding?”

            “I’m not deflecting,” she says. “And I’m _not_ hiding.”

            “You’re an open book, love,” he answers, his inquisitive eyebrow retreating further up underneath the slopping fringe of his unruly hair. “You’re hiding.”

            “I just needed a breather, okay?” Emma sighs as she brings her hands up to her face. Her cheeks are starting to feel numb and moving her limbs starts to feel like they’re made out of lead.

            _Weightlessness,_ she thinks complacently, that was exactly what she wanted tonight.

            “Aye, I figured you didn’t like all this pomp and circumstance,” he tells her as he gives her an understanding grin. “I wanted to make sure you were alright.”

            Emma returns his smile as she tries to fight the color from rising to her cheeks. “I will be,” she answers him.

            “I also noticed that Graham had left,” he starts tentatively, color rising to his own cheeks and up to the tips of his ears, which he scratches with his right hand. “So, I figured it would be alright for me to give you your birthday gift.”

            “Killian, you didn’t need to get me anything,” Emma tells him earnestly.

            “I’ve had this for a while,” he starts nervously, his gaze avoiding hers. “I guess I was just waiting for the right moment to give it to you.”

            Emma waits quietly as he reaches into the back pocket of his jeans and pulls out two black organza drawstring pouches. She walks closer to him as he smiles nervously, looking like he was having second thoughts about the gifts, but still he hands one of them to her.

            She opens the pouch eagerly, unable to mask her excitement, and pulls out a long gold chain with a smoky gray and black quartz pendant hanging from the bottom of it. She recognizes the pendant immediately as one of the ones she had liked down at the New Orleans House of Voodoo.

            “I saw you looking at them when we were at the French Quarter,” he offers tentatively.

            “I can’t believe you noticed that,” Emma tells him, her voice breathless.

            “I notice everything about you,” he responds, eliciting the same swooping sensation in her belly that she felt earlier.

            “Help me put it on?” She asks him brazenly, handing the necklace back to him when he nods at her. She’s sure that he can see right through her, what with her being such an open book to him and the chain being long enough for her to place it around her neck without having to unclasp it. If he does pick up on her motives, though, he doesn’t comment on it and simply twirls his index finger, motioning for her to turn around.

            She wouldn’t care if he could see right through her even if he had mentioned anything about it, though. She wants to feel his hands against her skin again, wants to feel some semblance of intimacy with him, to toe the line between being friends and being something more like they had back at the plantation, so she turns around and swoops her long hair over one shoulder and waits for him to loop the necklace around her neck and clasp it. It feels like an eternity as she waits for him, but as soon as she thinks to turn around and ask him what’s taking him so long, she feels his warm breath against the nape of her neck as he unclasps the necklace and loops it around her neck, his warm fingers ghosting her skin as he works the clasp and grabs her side swept hair into his fist and lets it fall onto her back once again. His hands still on either one of her shoulders, his body so close to hers that she only need to step back an inch and she’d be pressing herself back against his hips. In the seconds that it takes for him to stop standing behind her and step back, visions of Killian pressing his groin against her ass, chest flush against her back, hands pinning her own down to the counter, his hot mouth on her neck as he grinded against her, filled Emma’s mind to the point that her heartbeat quickened and her breaths became slightly shallow.

            “Thank you,” she tells him as she turns towards him feeling flustered.

            “No problem,” Killian answers.

            “What’s in the other bag?” Emma grins, eager to see what the other gift was.

            “It’s stupid,” he tells her, opening up the second organza drawstring pouch and pulling out a jade colored pendulum with a gold chain.

            “Is that—?”

            “Aye, the very same,” Killian answers, his cheeks reddening, “I bought them while you were getting your reading, but next thing I know we were rushing you to the hospital and it just never felt like the right time to give them to you.”

            “I can’t believe you’ve kept it all this time,” Emma says as she takes the pendulum from Killian’s hands.

            He shrugs.

            “Like I said, I could never find the perfect time to give it to you,” he starts, walking forward and closing the gap between them, his hand outstretched towards the pendulum. “You’ve seemed vexed lately,” he says quietly as his fingers graze the jade quartz that hung suspended in the air and travel up the chain until they ghost around her own hand. Emma looks up at him through her lashes; her breath held in as she her gaze meets his. “And I know better than to intrude, so I thought you could use some direction or at least something to help you with whatever is plaguing you.”

            Emma smiles up at him, a small rueful smile that barely stretches her mouth at all but one that is still genuine. “Thank you,” she says, thanking him not only for his gifts but for his understanding, for his constant refrain to push her beyond her limits, for not letting her isolate him like she has taken to isolating everyone else in the past weeks, and for offering her this friendship that is as easy as breathing.

            Killian returns her smile as his hand outstretches towards her again, this time sliding around her waist and pulling her forward towards him. Emma’s arms automatically wrap themselves around his neck, and she breathes in his scent as his arms coil around her waist. He’s warm and his embrace is comforting, and goddamn it she wishes that having his arms around her didn’t feel like home as much as it did.

            “Happy Birthday, Em,” he says and she hangs onto him tighter. She mumbles her thanks against his wool sweater and they stay there in the darkened kitchen, standing in near silence, his arms still around her and her face buried in his neck. They sway a bit to the muffled music that thumps from the outside, their earlier libations acting as enablers in this situation where they’ve both seemed to forget about everything else and have opted to simply be.

            Save for the way they woke up at Oak Ridge two weeks ago, this was the closest they’ve been to giving in to what they both undeniably feel for each other. As his hands travel under her sweater, his warm hands settle firmly on either side of her hips and the bare skin that he touches erupts in goose bumps. Emma can’t help but grin as a similar reaction happens on his body as her nose grazes the exposed skin of his neck and her hands travel up to coil around his hair, her nails grazing the nape of his neck.

            She feels his groan rumble deep in his chest and she can’t help but gasp as she feels his hands press firmly onto her skin as a consequence to her light scratches. Emma feels his lips press against the side of her head, his fingers digging deeper onto her exposed skin as his own nose grazes her head, his mouth trailing his firm lips against her forehead. She knows she should pull away, but absolutely no part of her wants to consent to that. She loves this, loves that he has her enveloped in his arms, that his mouth is pressed against her skin. Real or not, long lost lover or friend that she only met a couple of months ago, Emma simply cannot find it in her heart to care. This is what she’s wanted for weeks now and she’d be a fool to stop it, no matter how unethical it is to let this go on.

            “ _Emma_ ,” he breathes and she swears she’s never heard her name be spoken with such conviction.

            “Yeah?” she breathes in return as her fingers thread deeper into his raven hair, pulling back the shaggy tendrils at the same time her lips trail up his neck.

            “What are we doing?” he asks, his voice strained.

            Emma doesn’t answer, but instead pulls away till her face is a few inches away from his. Killian’s eyes are darkened, his black pupils threatening to take over the entirety of his ice blue irises. His hand travels further up her shirt, his fingers grazing the skin parallel to her spine, setting her skin aflame with his touch. She counters his brazen movement with one of her own, choosing to slide her hand from the nape of his neck down to his jaw and trying not to tremble at her bold— _stupid_ , absolutely stupid and _rash_ —decision to drag her fingers across his lips and the way he looks at her as her thumb grazes his lower lip.

            They both stay quiet, save for two simultaneous sets of panting breaths, two erratic beating hearts, and two pairs of eyes widened in surprise as Killian presses his lips forward and kisses her thumb. Emma stares at him, the grip she holds on his hair tightening in response, her breath a shaky mirror of his. She feels like her knees could buckle under the intensity of his gaze on hers, it’s dark and filled with lust and Emma hasn’t seen any such blatant display of desire shot in her direction ever before. Her thoughts are lost in trying to decipher what he’s thinking and in their reckless absentmindedness, neither of them pays any attention to the sound of the front door opening and closing.

            “Killy?” Christine’s voice rings throughout the hallway. “Are you in here?” she asks and both Emma and Killian jump away from each other as if Christine’s voice was a bucket of boiling water that threatened to fall on top of them and leave them scalded if they didn’t step out of each other’s embrace.

            Emma stands back towards the counter, the still air in between them bitter and cold now that they stood a good three feet away from each other. Panting, they both look at each other, Killian’s expression pained as he calls out, “in here, lass!”

            “Hey,” the petite blonde greets as she enters the threshold to the kitchen. “I was wondering where you went off to,” Christine continues with an unmistakable edge to her voice.

            Emma tucks an errant hair behind her ear as she watches the scene unfold in front of her. Christine was obviously both severely intoxicated and incredibly pissed off for some reason. Her curly hair threatened to topple out of her topknot as she angrily crossed her arms across her chest and outstretched her leg to widen her stance.

            “We need to talk, Killy.” Christine tells him, a passing glare directed at Emma before she turns her full attention back to her boyfriend.

            Killian’s gaze turns towards Emma, looking at her as if he wanted to say something else to her, but Emma would be a fool if she didn’t take Christine’s hint.

            “I’m just going to go,” Emma says quietly before retreating through the screen door that led to the veranda.

            The December air had been cool in New Orleans earlier in the day, but it was much colder now since the sun had set hours ago. The patio is full of people, the party ongoing and unfurling before her very eyes. It was a little after midnight and Emma couldn’t help but wonder what was keeping the police at bay. They weren’t being quiet and this wasn’t just a simple get together, it’s virtually impossible for Ruby to throw something so simple and innocuous.

            She finds a secluded spot in the patio, and as she sits on a concrete ledge she can’t help but to thread her still shaking fingers throughout her blonde hair. God, what was she _thinking_ throwing herself at Killian like that? True, it’s not like he hadn’t responded to her shameless display of desire; no, he’d reciprocated it very enthusiastically, but still. She had no business throwing herself at him like that, no business threading her fingers through his hair — god it had been so _soft_ — or dragging her lips on his neck. She was with Graham, he was with Christine, and she couldn’t blame her barefacedness on anything other than her own will. This wasn’t like when they woke up tangled in each other’s arms; no, there their subconscious brought them together. Here? Here, she had her own recklessness to blame.

            How could she face him now?

            She should be staying away from him. That’s what she had decided if all this Emmeline LaBoeuf shit was real! But did she stay away from him? No, she had done the exact opposite and basically thrown herself at him when he gave her a necklace. She wonders what would she do if he had given her something as extravagant as a trip to Ireland.

            Fuck him on the spot, probably.

            God, Emma thinks, she needs to get a grip.

            “Mind if I sit?” a velvety voice interrupts her train of thought and snaps her out of her reverie. Emma looks up and a pair of expressive eyes, the irises purple if she’s not mistaken, greets her. A wide smile curls on a smooth skin, his smile a striking white against the melanin that makes up his dark skin.

            “No, go ahead,” she answers him, motioning idly at the space next to her as she slides down the concrete slab to make space for him.

            “Thanks,” he says, his voice deep and charming. “Say, you the birthday girl?” he asks jovially and it makes Emma smile genuinely.

            “My birthday was last week but, yeah,” she answers.

            “How come you’re hiding out here?” he asks her, his shoulder bumping against hers in jest.

            “Needed some air, I guess,” Emma shrugs. “I’m not much for being the center of attention.”

            “Makes sense,” he nods and the silence hangs limply between them.

            “Are you a friend of Ruby’s?” Emma asks him, an uncharacteristic attempt at conversation on her part.

            “No. I came here looking for some friends of hers though,” he answers her.

            “Oh, okay,” Emma responds. “Do you go to school with us? I feel like I’ve seen you around.”

            “No,” he laughs. “I run errands around here, deliver messages and things of the like.”

            “Oh,” Emma nods. “I get it. Do you need me to point someone out for you, then? You know, for your _delivery_.”

            “No, no, chere,” he laughs again. “I came here looking for you,” he says and this time his voice is much less charming and Emma isn’t too drunk to notice that there’s a darkened tone to it.

            “Look, buddy, I didn’t order anything nor am I interested in what you’re selling so you can go away now.” Emma answers him, feeling her hackles rise up again, and wanting nothing more than to step away from this guy’s presence.

            “I’m not here to sell you anything,” he answers her nonchalant, almost as if he didn’t care if she was freaking out next to him, almost as if he expected it. “I simply came to deliver a message.”

            “Who from?” Emma asks defensively.

            “Doesn’t matter who sent it, only that you get it,” he replies and she scoffs because of- _fucking_ -course she would get out of one messed up situation to plunge headfirst into another one.

            “Well, what is it?” Emma asks exasperatedly.

            “ _Time is running out._ ”

            Emma stares at him, her heart palpitating erratically against her chest.

            “Dude, what the hell are you talking about?” she asks him incredulously, trying to fight the fear to seep into her voice. That’s the last thing he needs, to know that she fears him. “Who are you?”

            “I think you know who I am but if you don’t, I’m willing to bet that you know exactly why I’m here,” he answers her smugly as he takes out a cigarette and lights it, the cherry burning red as he inhales.

            “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Emma answers him as she stands up and makes to move away from him. She’s had about enough of this day.

            “Let go of me, you creep!” she spits loudly at him as his arm coils tightly around her upper arm and pulls her towards him.

            “Or what?” he bites back, pulling on her arm harder.

            “Or I’ll punch you right in the face and scream bloody murder,” she retorts haughtily.

            “You made a deal, Emmeline, and I’m the one they send to collect.” He offers ominously, his vice grip on her upper arm tightening even more. Unmistakable shadows swirl around him and his eyes are even more expressive than before as he whispers, “You are running out of time.”

            A deal.

            _A deal,_ she thinks and suddenly his presence makes sense to her.

            This was all about the deal that Emmeline LaBoeuf made with Ursula, wasn’t it?

            “Did Ursula put you up to this?” She snaps at him, forcefully yanking her arm away from his grip. I told her I don’t believe in any of this shit so leave me the fuck alone, alright?”

            “Don’t you disrespect me, little girl!” he shouts, the shadows that surrounded him, seemingly looming wider and taller around him, making him look bigger and much more intimidating. “You made a deal and that means that you’re in _my_ world now, and we’ll play by my rules.”

            “I’m calling the fucking cops, you creep.” Emma’s voice wavers slightly as she spits her threat out. She can feel the familiar feeling of fear and shadows begin to cripple her.

            “Tell me, Emmeline. How exactly are you going to do that and who’s going to hear you?” He grins at her, a menacing grin that makes him look almost feral. His eyes flit around the room and he steps back from her, crossing his arms against his chest arrogantly.

            It’s only now that Emma realizes that the music that surrounded her, once so loud and virtually deafening, has stopped completely and the patio has been left in radio silence. As she turns to look around her, a scream dies in her throat and the denial that had been the fodder of her actions for the past months is nowhere to be found. She can’t possibly deny the sight in front of her, the sight of people frozen in time, unmoving and statuesque.

            Her body shakes violently at the way shadows scream and loom around everyone, twisting and turning around bodies like snakes slithering across the sand.

            “What are you?” she hears herself say, her voice full of fear. “Some sort of voodoo wizard?”

            “I prefer the term witch doctor,” he replies smugly. “I simply came to deliver a warning, Emmeline. You are running out of time and the Loa do not like debts to go unpaid.”

            He’s gone in a manner of seconds after tipping his hat and a whirl of swirling purple smoke enveloping him completely.

            Emma stands in shock as the music comes back full volume, the party guests once again dancing to their hearts content, unaware that seconds ago they had been standing frozen, smiling eerily as menacing shadows swirled around them. She doesn’t realize that she’s been running until she collides with a hard body, and deep blue wool engulfs her eyesight. She throws her arms around him again, her earlier sentiments be damned. She needs him.

            “Em, are you alright?” Killian asks, his voice muffled as he presses his mouth against her head. She nods faintly, but her head pounds and her stomach feels uneasy. The earlier rum shots hit her now, the unique feeling of being unable to control your gag reflex overpowering her. She hears him mention her name one more time before her body involuntarily lunges sideways and doubles forward, the contents of her dinner and Bacardi 151 spewing out of her mouth and onto the grass next to them.

            “Oh, Swan,” Killian says his grip firm on her torso and her name a pitying sound being emitted from his lips. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”

            “Killy, can’t someone else do this? We literally _just_ talked about this, she’s a big girl she can take care of herself.”

            “Christine, can you just let me fucking do this, please?” Emma hears Killian snap before adding softly, “I won’t be long, love. I promise.”

            He carries her up to her apartment and, after a solid ten-minute detour to her bathroom — in which her head was thrust into the toilet as she emptied the contents of her stomach once again, until nothing else came out even though her gag-reflex didn’t seem to get the memo — to her bedroom.

            “Did I get you?” Emma asks feebly, her voice a hoarse croak.

            “No,” Killian smiles at her, his fingers threading through her matted hair. “Nearly did though,” he laughs.

            “Don’t laugh, it’s so embarrassing.” Emma groans as she closes her eyes. She opens them again, not wanting to feel like she’s taking a ride on the Mad Hatter’s teacups in Disney World, instead of sitting in her own room.

            “It happens to the best of us,” he responds. “Look, I’ve got to go but I’ve left you water and aspirin here on the nightstand, and there’s a bag on the trash bin so you don’t have to get up.”

            “Stay,” she pleads, her hand clasped around his wrist.

            “I want to,” he answers her. “But I can’t tonight, Em.”

***

            She walks down the cobblestoned streets of the French Quarter with a steely determination, the sound of her heeled boots echoing around her. The sun has set, but the sky is still tinged with muted oranges and deep magenta as night starts to envelope the city. She’s over all of this, she thinks as she tightens her red leather jacket around her form to try and shield herself from the blistering wind that seeps through her clothes and chills her bones. She’s done with voodoo queens, long lost lovers, and creepy men who proclaim to be witch doctors and have the ability to pause life and tell her that time is running out. She’s tired of so many people telling her what to do, her parents, her boyfriend, her friends, fucking voodoo queens and witch doctors, and hell, even Killian. This is her life and _she_ has a say in it, _she_ decides who she’s with, and what she’s doing, and how she’s going to go about living _her_ life.

            She’s tired of being pushed around and it’s about time she punches back.

            It doesn’t take her long to reach the _New Orleans House of Voodoo_ , her anger having coursed through her and propelled her feet forward almost in autopilot. The street is strangely empty for a Saturday night, with only a few stragglers littering the road as they head back towards Bourbon Street. Emma can hear a lonely saxophone echoing down St. Ann as it plays a few streets over, and she hesitates for a few seconds before shaking her head, squaring her shoulders, and bounding through the door.

            “I need to speak to Madame Ursula,” she bites at the girl manning the cashier.

            “Madame is busy at the moment, miss,” the girl responds, the drawl of her voice clipped in annoyance.

            “This is urgent,” Emma tells the girl, her fingers digging into the wooden counter, and the girl must believe her because, after sizing Emma up, she nods and makes her way through the beaded curtain that leads into Ursula’s salon.

            “Madame will see you now,”

            “Emmeline,” Ursula greets her from further back in the room, still dressed in white the Voodoo Queen’s back was turned to her as she prepared something against a counter. “I was beginning to wonder when I’d see you again. Please sit, ma chére. ”

            “Cut the crap,” Emma tells her, standing resolutely near the beaded curtain. The last time she was in this room she had a panic attack so horrible that it led her to a hospital. She was not about to have a repeat performance. “You need to fix this,” she says as she crosses her arms against her chest, and tries to ignore the way the hairs on the nape of her neck stand on edge when Ursula turns around and sizes her up, her eyebrows perched high on her forehead and a porcelain cup in her hands.

            “I rather hoped your attitude didn’t reincarnate as well, but it seems that my hopes were in vain,” is all Ursula responds, a satirical sigh leaving her mauve tinted lips as she walks over to the table and sits on her usual chaise, the deep burgundy velvet upholstery looking even more imposing as the stark white of her clothing contrasts against it.

            “Fix this,” Emma says again, her voice quivering slightly but whether if it was from intimidation or anger she wasn’t exactly sure. She hated being in this place, hated that she couldn’t just ignore this anymore, and hated that her life had taken a turn for the fantastical.

            “Fix what, exactly?” Ursula asks her, her brown eyes narrowing slightly and her head tilting to the side as she scrutinizes Emma.

            _Fix what, exactly._ There was the question of the century, and it was one that Emma didn’t really have the answer for. She couldn’t have had a normal life, couldn’t she? No, it had to come with curses, voodoo queens, witch doctors, and long lost lovers coming back from the dead. God, she doesn’t even want to think about that last one either because long lost lovers would mean that it was Killian she was fated to be with. And maybe that wouldn’t be so bad if she didn’t know that the only reason she was fated to be with Killian was the knowledge that someone had paid the woman in front of her to ensure that. She can’t help but feel that the connection they share is something forced by someone else’s decision and not their own. It saddens her, because how could a forced—no, an _ensured_ —connection be real?

            They didn’t have a say in meeting each other, in becoming friends, in feeling for each other, they had no say in anything. And if they didn’t have a say, Emma thinks, then it can’t possibly be real.

            “This mess I’m in,” is all Emma answers, her voice still carrying the residual anger and fear that propelled her here in the first place.

            “This isn’t my mess to fix,” Ursula responds curtly and it hits a nerve. If Ursula hadn’t accepted her great-great-aunt’s proposal, hadn’t done what Emmeline LaBoeuf had done, then Emma wouldn’t be in this mess.  

            “Like hell it is! I’m in this position because of you!” Emma lashes out, bounding towards Ursula, her lithe legs closing the distance between them in seconds and her hands coming to rest on the table so forcefully that the old wood rattled underneath her palms and the light above them swung around faster.

            “You were the one that came in here in the first place,” Ursula responds, standing up and mirroring Emma’s position. Emma recoils slightly, internally chastising herself for angering a _fucking_ voodoo queen, if not _the_ voodoo queen. “You wanted this,” Ursula bites out, her voice menacing and her arm outstretched towards Emma, her dark, slender forefinger digging into Emma’s chest.

            “I never asked for this!” Emma withdraws her hands from the table and practically wails in exasperation as she runs both hands through her blonde hair.

            “You came in this very salon years ago and you begged me to ensure that you would have your sailor in your life.”

            “I am not her!” Emma practically snarls, her nails digging into the palm of her hands in frustration.

            “You only think that because you do not remember,” Ursula tells her softly as she takes her place back in her velvet chaise. “You need to remember,” she pleads, her hand outstretched and motioning to the chair opposite her.

            “The only thing I _need_ is for you to stop this because my life keeps being threatened and I don’t feel safe anymore!” Emma sighs, pulling the chair out and sitting on it, her elbows resting on the old wooden table as her hands cradle her head.

            “What do you mean your life is being threatened?” Ursula asks curiously, the tone of her voice serious.

            “I mean that in the last two weeks, a white fucking ball of light went through my body and led me out to a graveyard, I almost drowned because I was in a trance and stepped into a river, and I keep being followed by shadows and men who can paralyze everything around me and I have never been more scared in my life,” Emma responds, her green eyes locking on Ursula’s brown ones, fear etched all over them. She can feel the shadows looming all around her. It’s all she feels nowadays, the heavy sensation of negative pressure all around her, the same feeling you get when you think somebody is watching you.

            “Shadows?” she asks, her brown eyes widening.

            “Did you miss the part about the man who can stop time and the fact that I almost drowned…did you miss the part about the ball of light?”

            Ursula rolls her eyes and pulls the porcelain cup towards her.

            “The ball of light, I expected,” she answers Emma as she stares deeply into the porcelain cup. “The shadows, however, are not something I thought would happen so soon.”

            “What do you mean you expected this?” Emma asks her, unable to keep the anxious tone out of her voice.

            “The last time you were here, chére, you left in such a hurry that I couldn’t explain everything to you,” Ursula starts, and Emma watches her entranced as her dark fingers fiddle methodically with the fringe of her white shawl. “I told you the dreams were memories and I thought that you would have pieced them together by now. I though you’d come back much sooner than when you did. The dreams, as they progressed, would have stopped escaping you and would have started to make sense to you as the memories resurfaced from your long-term memory.”

            “I haven’t been dreaming,” Emma confides, her voice a hushed whisper.

            “What do you mean?” Ursula asks her.

            “I mean that I’ve been taking anxiety medication before going to sleep and they usually knock me out into a dreamless sleep,” Emma explains sheepishly.

            “No wonder the shadows have appeared so soon,” Ursula sighs. “You’ve met your sailor, you’ve awakened two thirds of your soul, but your memories are still locked away and time has started to run.”

            “I’m sorry, did you say I’ve awakened two thirds of my soul?”

            “ _Oui_ , ma chére,” Ursula nods. “When you came to me, the spell you desired meant that you would give your present life in order for the future you to have an ensured meeting with your sailor.”

            “So she— _I—_ sold my soul basically? Is that what you’re telling me?”

            “I’m afraid so,” Ursula nods.

            “How could you let her— _me_ —do that?”

            “You were relentless. I told you the consequences would be dire but you would not be persuaded. You loved him, you wanted him back at any expense, even if it was your own.”

            “How do you know I already met him?” Emma asks as her heart beats heavy against her ribcage, the sound of her heart throbbing up and against her eardrum.

            “It would be the only factor that would have driven you here in the first place, but now you know who he is, don’t you?” Ursula asks her and Emma nods, unable to voice the fact that she knows it’s Killian and not wanting to accept the fact that it’s him.

            “What about the witch doctor?” Emma asks desperate to steer the subject away from Killian.

            “He is no witch doctor anymore,” Ursula scoffs disdainfully. “When you came to me all those years ago, Facilier _used_ to be quite the prominent bokor in New Orleans. That is until he filled his life with even more greed and ambition than ever before and his own black magic ended up being his downfall.”

            “What happened to him?”

            “I’ll show you,” Ursula tells her as she stands up from her burgundy chaise and heads to the fireplace in the corner. Emma watches apprehensively as she sees the voodoo queen take out a giant pewter cauldron filled with glistening, almost silver colored liquid that sloshed as the cauldron was pulled out. And no, Emma couldn’t help but quoting Harry Potter in Sorcerer’s Stone as she thought about how all first-years students will require one standard pewter cauldron, nor how she somehow expected Ursula to pull out a thin, silver thread of memory out of her temple and lower it to the cauldron.

            Instead, Ursula walks over to a cupboard and takes out a vial filled with a rich dark liquid that unnervingly looked a lot like blood and hands it to Emma. Emma grabs the vial in her hands, feeling way in over her head as she turns the glass in her hands. Then, after taking the vial back in her hands and turning away from Emma, Ursula flicks her fingers and instantly flames erupt underneath the cauldron.

            “Is that—”

            “Blood? _Oui_ , ma chére,” Ursula nods as she lets the blood drip into the silver liquid. “Chicken’s,” she clarifies at Emma’s widened eyes.

            “Please tell me you lit a match without me seeing you do it and dropped it on the logs,” Emma whines, her voice pleading.

            “Even after seeing it with your two eyes you still have trouble believing in magic,” Ursula laughs at Emma’s pained expression.

            Emma follows Ursula’s lead and stares deep into the cauldron and, for a second nothing really happens. But then, as smoke starts to rise in front of them, images take shape in the smog that surrounds them. Emma sees as a young Facilier struts around the French Quarter in what looked like the 1920s and he stops to talk to a fine looking young man with tan skin, wavy brown hair, and caramel colored eyes and his rather portly companion.

            “There he is tricking unsuspecting royalty,” Ursula’s voice travels to Emma. “He turned him into a frog in order to keep him out of the way while he made the fat one impersonate the prince, attempt to marry your cousin Charlotte and kill your uncle Eli so he could have the LaBoeuf estate.” It feels weird to hear her talk about people she doesn’t know as her family, but Emma is unable to look away as the story unfolds and Facilier tempts a beautiful dark-skinned girl in a similar way that he had approached Emma on her birthday. Ultimately, Emma watches as the dark-skinned girl refuses the enticement of Facilier’s dark magic, in turn destroys his talisman, and sees the shadows dragging Facilier with them, his face etched on a grave as he vanishes from sight.

            “He formed an alliance with voodoo demons, dark Loas filled with dark magic that take the form of shadows and gris-gris,” Ursula says as the smoke dissipates from the room. “He dealt in Petro Voodoo and he was very powerful but, that necklace that Tiana broke? That was the source of all his power and when it broke the Loas took what he owed them—his life.”

            “What’s Petro Voodoo?”

            “Dark voodoo,” Ursula offers heading back to the table and sitting down again. Emma follows her and sits down opposite her. “It’s the kind of voodoo people think about when they hear about our magic. There is a thin line between light and dark in any kind of magic, and voodoo is no different. There is good and bad everywhere.”

            “And yours is good?” Emma asks her and Ursula smiles sadly at her.

            “I try to be,” she answers. “But I’ve lived a long, long time ma chére and there are times when that line blurs both sides together.”

            Emma nods at her as she fiddles with a stray thread that has come undone from her white sweater. She mulls over everything she’s just learned, and the information, though nearly suffocating her, feels legitimate and she has no power to deny it.

            “Why is he after me?”

            “Papa Negba uses those who owed him and the Loa as debt collectors for all eternity,” Ursula answers her before bringing the porcelain cup up to her mauve-tinted lips. “That’s why you must try and remember, Emmeline.”

            “Don’t call me that,” Emma responds almost automatically and she blushes when Ursula looks at her affronted. “I go by Emma,” she explains sheepishly.

            “Very well then, Emma, you must try and remember. You must let yourself dream, because once you accept it all of this will go away.”

            “What if I don’t want any of this? Look, I have a life—friends, school, a boyfriend. I graduate next semester and I can’t just deal with everything and add this on top.”

            “I’m afraid you must,” Ursula urges her, her voice soft but pleading. “Emma, all magic comes with a price and voodoo is no different. You challenged fate, you ensured your next life, _this_ life. You traded a life for a life, yours for your sailor’s, and if you do not awaken both your souls before time runs out, I’m afraid history will repeat itself.”

            “You don’t mean something will happen to Killian?” Emma asks, the fear of losing him manifesting itself for the first time as her heart feels like it plummets down to her stomach and her chest heaves in dread. It still surprises her how in just a matter of weeks she had gone from completely hating him to not being able to picture a life without him in it.

            “ _Non_ , ma chére, by ensuring this life you committed a selfish act, and even the lightest of magic gets tainted by darkness when the motives are not selfless,” Ursula shakes her head ruefully. “The life Papa Negba will take is yours.”

 

           

           

           

           

 


	12. Chapter Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, hello! I have risen from the dead. Actually, I've risen from finishing my second year of law school and working at court and dying all day every day. 
> 
> Listen, please know how lucky I am to have those of you who left me messages to see how this story was going and how much you miss it. It means A L O T that you've stayed with me.
> 
> I'll be honest, the main reason why this chapter took so long was because it was a very draining chapter to write, it was a monumental CS chapter but it was also a necessary evil chapter.
> 
> So for those of you who this might harm, I want you to know that there are some slight sexual assault trigger warnings for this chapter. The section is marked off with asterisks so if you're sensitive to that kind of material I'll be okay with you not reading it. 
> 
> Do what's best for you always please.

Chapter Eleven

Show me my yes, she thinks, and the jade pendulum swings left to right.

Emma sighs, closing her eyes again before whispering, "Show me my no." And much like it did months ago, as she says the words the pendulum changes course, the green stone now swinging up and down. She's been doing this for hours now, attempting to fall asleep while her mind keeps racing a mile a minute, filled with too many thoughts to wade through as she tries to calm herself down, so she takes the pendulum from her bedside table and asks it whether everything that just happened at Ursula's actually did. Emma has debated everything, from the way the flames sparked to life under the cauldron without a match or a lighter, to the conversation with Ursula, and finally to whether or not she should let herself dream again.

If she lets herself dream, that's it. She will open herself up to everything, the migraines and the duty to keep history from repeating itself. If she lets herself dream, she lets herself piece together the memories that her subconscious holds. It's no longer a matter of fate, out of her hands and outside her reach. No, if she lets herself dream it's up to her to stop fate from happening. If she lets herself dream, everything is real.

Could she deal with that? She barely had time to breathe this past semester, what with Graham, rehearsals, and a full eighteen credit load of classes she needed in order to graduate on time. And now she's supposed to juggle everything and on top of that find the way to let her remember a past life so she can save herself and live happily ever after with Killian Jones of all people?

"This is insane," she whispers to herself as she notices the faint glimmer of dawn's early light streaming into her room through the blinds covering the window. "I need to decide between dying or forcing Killian to love me."

Emma stares up at the ceiling, counting the seconds as the fan swirls above her. She blinks rapidly to make blades slow down, her decision seemingly materializing with the beat of their circular motion. A tear rolls down her the side of her face and into her hair as she takes the tinfoil packet from her bedside table, and pops one of her anti-anxiety tablets into her mouth.

Rolling her eyes at her own weakness, she dry swallows the pill and as she slowly drifts into a dreamless sleep she thinks that she'd rather take her chances at life than to force Killian to love her.

-/-

It's borderline freezing in City Park as the chilly December winds swirl with the ever-present New Orleans humidity and seep into her clothes, the chill burrowing its way down to her bones, and the cold enveloping her relentlessly despite the amount of layers she has on. Emma had been walking around aimlessly through the lit gardens for the past hour or so, a soft smile on her face as she took in the wonder that Celebration in the Oaks always brought year after year. The holiday attraction spans a number of acres across the park, including the Botanical Garden, the Carousel Gardens, and Storyland. There are a good number of people in the park, everyone taking in the sights of giant oaks swathed in hundreds of twinkling lights, or taking pictures in front of the towering poinsettia tree inside the conservatory. There's an attraction for everyone here, whether it be for a family outing or a date, or even just college kids enjoying a nice night out with their friends.

Which, incidentally, is what she was doing here. She had lost her friends a while ago, as Mary Margaret trailed behind David who wanted to show Killian the train garden — an area tucked inside the botanical garden that showcased a small replica of New Orleans in the nineteenth century, with model trains and streetcars zooming across and around the perimeter — and Ruby had run off with Victor, most likely to make-out somewhere conspicuous and probably scarring a small child in the process.

It had been a nice night, low-key and quiet but with enough activity to keep Emma's thoughts occupied. She spends most of the night trying to rid herself of thoughts about voodoo queens and villainous shadows, and the anxiety that grows with each passing day that she doesn't break up with Graham—she had called him, hoping to invite him out but she had received radio silence in exchange. The distraction tactic was working well for most of the night, with her friends she didn't have to think about how she still hadn't let herself dream even though her life apparently depended on her doing so, or devoting any time to the thought of Killian being the apparent love of her life, his soul needing to be reawakened just as hers needed to be. The latter was harder to ignore, given that they both came to the event unaccompanied by their significant others and thus were forced to sit next to each other while the group opted to take a ride on the train or hop on the Ferris wheel, but her mind was sufficiently occupied before everyone had gone their own way around the park.

Emma can't avoid the thoughts now. She sits on a cement bench outside Storyland, the cool of the stone threading through the thin fabric of her tights and chilling her thighs in the process. Emma grins as she sees a toddler giggling as she circles around her parents, the tiny pink parka bright against the illuminated trees that surround them. Shrill childish screams fill the area as kids of all ages run through the mouth of the whale, swallowing them up like it did Pinocchio. Laughter echoes as their little arms and feet climb to the top of a dragon whose fire breath forms a long plastic slide. There's a pirate ship and a pumpkin carriage, all swathed in twinkling fairy lights like the rest of the areas. Her mind flits back to years past and she can see herself in the little pink parka, running after her cousins as they played. She remembers how James would lure her into the belly of the whale under the pretense of being an excellent place to take cover while they played hide and seek, but then he would leave her there and the darkness would scare her out of her wits until David, ever her protector, would find her sobbing on the ground. David would always find her, he'd grab her hand and walk her out to the twinkling fairy lights that seemed like fireworks to her young eyes, and he'd climb up the dragon with her, hugging her close to him as they'd slide down together.

They had stopped coming after Katrina, they didn't really have a choice even if they wanted to. The park had flooded and oak trees littered the acreage, her grandparents relocated up north to live in Memphis with her uncle while they tried to salvage and rebuild what was left of their lakefront home. David and James had been shipped off to boarding school in North Carolina, and she followed suit first to New Hampshire and finally in Connecticut. Like she said, she couldn't really come back even if she wanted to.

She sighs audibly, her heart heavy with memories of the past. She hates thinking about Katrina, about the loss of people she knew first hand and drowned in their own living rooms. But mostly she hates thinking about her grandparents' home, how mold crept up the walls and over her First Communion pictures—the ones that littered the top of the piano in the foyer, the piano that had to be replaced. She knows that she's lucky that the house is still standing, that the flooding didn't reach the top floors, and mostly that her grandparents had made it out alive, but the house still carries painful memories — the struggle and strife of having to rebuild some semblance of the life you had in your home before a disaster nearly swept it away. The trees here are a reminder of that, so many of them were replanted in order to rebuild the park and maybe that's why she loves New Orleans so much — because, like her, it's a little broken but still standing nonetheless. Her mind flits back to Killian as she wonders if he feels the same way about this town, if the attraction to living here mirrors hers. With a mother dying when he was a child, an unsupportive father who drank himself into an early grave, and a long lost first love that didn't feel she was important enough to keep on living, he can't possibly deny that he's a little broken too.

He's happy tonight, she's noticed. She's noticed and a thrill runs up her spine whenever he looks at her and grins so wide that his dimples are prominent underneath his stubble and his blue eyes reflect the twinkling lights above him. Emma wonders the reason behind his happiness, hoping selfishly that it has nothing to do with Christine and everything to do with being in Emma's company.

"There you are, Swan!" Killian's lilted voice breaks through her reverie and she turns towards him, an easy smile automatically gracing her lips.

"Hey," she breathes, sliding sideways to make up room for him on the bench.

"I've been looking everywhere for you," he says as he grins widely, showcasing the dimples that have been driving her wild the entire night. "What have you been up to?"

"I've just been walking around," she shrugs and looks away. She had been staring at him, something about him wearing thick horn-rimmed glasses just did something to her. Ever since he whipped them out to read her paper during their first peer review session, she hasn't been able to stop staring at him when he wears them. And he knows, he has to know what those stupid glasses do to her.

"Are you alright, love?" he asks, his voice etched with concern.

"I'm fine, Killian, just tired," she replies, her voice sounding unconvincing to her own ears and by the look Killian gives her, he doesn't believe her either. She gives him a smile, though as she tugs down at her beanie to cover her ears as a chilling gust of wind blows through them. "How was the train?"

"Fascinating," he responds as he pops the collar of his peacoat, visibly shuddering as he does so.

"And the company?"

"Sickeningly sweet as per custom," he says brightly, a mischievous mirth present in his blue eyes. "Couldn't get out of there fast enough, honestly," he confides with a laugh, bumping her shoulder against hers. She looks down at how close their hands are, his pinky only a few centimeters away from hers. She wants to grab his hand, to thread her fingers through his and feel the strong, warm hold of his hand.

"You're uncharacteristically chipper," she says, bringing her hand up to let it rest on her lap instead. Killian arches an eyebrow while he wears a shit-eating grin on his face as he stands up from the bench and walks away from her.

"I'm afraid being standoffish and brooding is your area of expertise, love," he tells her with his hands dug deep in his coat pockets and shrug of his shoulders as he turns towards her. "You're prickly."

"I am not prickly," she replies hotly, earning a wider grin from him before he turns around and keeps walking out of Storyland. Emma practically growls as she stands up and follows him. Honestly, he was so insufferable it's a wonder she would even like him if she wasn't apparently fated to. "I'm not," she repeats a little breathless once she catches up to him. He's so stupid and lanky!

"Agree to disagree," he responds, his voice nonchalant but from the corner of her eye she can can see that he's smirking at her. She huffs again, speeding up her walking towards the Carousel Gardens and he laughs. His long legs help him catch up to her in no time. "Oh, come on, Swan," he laughs, his arm extending to grab her by the wrist and tug her towards him. She wasn't expecting the movement, and Emma's free hand braces itself square on his chest, the wool of his black peacoat scratchy underneath her palm. Suddenly they had found themselves entirely too close to each other and Killian is biting his lip when he says, "You know I'm teasing you."

"Yeah, you do that a lot," Emma responds sourly, pushing herself away from him and rolling her eyes for good measure. Killian laughs as he keeps walking towards Carousel Gardens.

"Perhaps it's because I like you," he tells her, bumping into her upper arm and knocking her slightly off kilter. She pushes him back, and he laughs again—that stupid wheezy laugh that makes warmth settle in the pool of her stomach.

"Oh, like a grade-schooler? Suddenly your maturity level makes a whole lot more sense." Emma counters as they stand in line for the food truck Killian had led them to. In turn, he simply rolls his eyes at her and takes a step forward as the line shortens ahead of them.

"Prickly," he replies.

"Oh, shut up," Emma tells him. They stand in silence as the line progresses slowly, there's a good ten people in front of them all wanting funnel cake or beignets or something equally deep fried and warm.

"But really, tell me. Why are you so happy?" Emma asks him and he once again smirks at her while giving her a sideways glance.

"I believe I was instructed to shut up," is all he says before he steps forward and places an order for beignets and a coke.

"Killian, come on." Emma groans at his response, her voice pleading as she takes a jab at his forearm with her palm. "Since when do you listen to me, anyways?"

"I'm offended, Swan. I always listen to you," he responds with a wink before he slips his thumb into his mouth to suck clean the powdered sugar that had gathered on his fingers when the doe-eyed teen helping out in the food truck gave him the plate of beignets. Smirking at what was definitely Emma's slack jawed look, he turned to grab the coke from the counter and walk back towards the Botanical Gardens.

"Yeah, okay buddy," she replies flustered and entirely too late for it to be a decent comeback.

Emma follows him silently, internally chastising herself for not being able to resist anything when it came to him, as he leads them into her favorite part of the entire attraction. White, twinkling Christmas lights surround the clearing in which they walk into. The giant oak trees in the glade are swathed in white, the strands drooping limply all around them, pulsating and twinkling rhythmically as if raindrops or snowflakes fell around them.

Taking off her beanie, Emma smiles at the sight around her, at the bright lights illuminating her face and the faint holiday music that played around the clearing. She turns to Killian who stares back at her lost for words, as he sits at the base of one of the oak trees. She feels the heat of her blush creep onto her cheeks as she tugs her hair behind her ear and makes to sit down next to him. She doesn't want to say that the look on Killian's face neared the definition of awestruck, but it was pretty damn close to that.

"Here hold this," he tells her, his voice gruff as he holds out the plate of beignets towards her once she sits down in the patchy spot of grass next to him.

"Oh, I'm supposed to wait on you now?" Emma counters archly.

"Hold the bloody beignets, Swan," he responds with a roll of his eyes, shoving the plate sideways towards her.

"Fine," she responds as she takes hold of the plate, licking the powdered sugar off her thumb. Emma feels Killian rummaging through his pockets, and turns to him with an arched eyebrow. "Wait, what are you doing?" she asks when she sees him take out a silver flask out of his coat pocket.

"What does it look like I'm doing?" he smirks at her before tipping the contents of the flask into the cup.

"Pouring way too much rum into that Coke." Emma responds flatly as she watches him with a raised eyebrow and pursed lips as he swishes the cup in small circular motions, mixing the rum and the soda together. Killian grins at her, winking conspiratorially as he tucks his flask back to wherever the hell he had pulled it out from and takes a generous gulp of the rum and Coke.

"You know, I don't really make a habit of eating beignets that aren't from Café du Monde," she tells him, eyeing the fried plate of French donuts skeptically.

"Well thank you for enlightening me," Killian chuckles, taking the plate back from her and biting into a beignet. "I'll have you know that I am more than capable to eat all three by myself."

"I'm just saying—"

"That you're an elitist, aye I gathered as such," he interrupts her with a smug smile, but hands her the spiked Coke nonetheless.

"I hate you," Emma tells him as she takes the cup and takes a sip. The drink is too cold and her body protests to the taste of it, but once the effervescence fizzles out and the rum hits her tastebuds, it warms her all the way down to her toes. She hums contentedly as the rum sits welcome in the pit of her stomach and gives him a smile before she continues, "Did you know that?"

"Aye, that I did." Killian responds, a dopey grin on his face as he looks at her. His gaze lingers and she doesn't know if it's the rum or if it is the way he looks at her that makes her stomach feel a little wonky. Emma watches as his cheeks, already tinged pink from the cold, turn a deeper shade of red in embarrassment, his hand shooting up to scratch his ear nervously as he notices that she's caught him staring. "Makes sense, considering you're a prickly elitist," he offers, clearly trying to get back onto the teasing exchange they've been having for the past fifteen minutes.

Emma stares at him slightly dumbfounded. Nervously, she tucks a hair behind her ear before looking away and settling her concentration on downing what's left of the rum and Coke. They're in kind of a weird place right now, she thinks. Some sort of friendship-relationship limbo where words are left unsaid and looks they exchange between themselves hope to convey much more than they're each willing to say. Killian is usually this loose and goofy around her, but very few times has he been so carefree that happiness just exudes from his entire existence. He broods, he teases, he is inappropriate and uses self-deprecating humor as a defense mechanism, but to see him this relaxed, this incandescently happy is rare and if she's being completely honest with herself, it makes her feel a little shitty. Not because she doesn't want him to be happy – a thought that couldn't be farther from the truth, all she wants is to see him happy – but because she wants so selfishly to be the source of that happiness.

God, she likes him so much and he seems to like her too but, is it real and if not, would it have been enough without magic bringing them together?

They're quiet for a while, both of them eating the warm beignets and enjoying each other's company. They people watch in silence, both of them laughing at the sights that unfolded in front of them without having to point it out to the other. At one point yet another cold rush of wind swirls around them and she shivers violently enough that Killian opens up his arm invitingly towards her and she doesn't think twice about scooting up to cuddle against him. Emma tucks her head on his shoulder and as his hand draws lazy circles on her leather-clad arm, she wishes that this is how they could be all the time.

"Tell me why you're so happy," she looks up at him and asks once she's done fighting against the cowardice that held her back and curiosity wins out.

"Because I'm in your company," he tells her, the wicked grin and the waggle of his eyebrows telling her that while he wasn't lying to her, he also wasn't being exactly truthful either.

"Killian, stop stalling." Emma finds herself whining in response, her hand smacking him on the chest in exasperation once again. Killian's eyes widen at her movement, but he doesn't tease her back like he did before. Instead, his hand closes around hers and anchors it against his own, his fingers – calloused pads, warm and rough against her cool skin – tracing lines on her palms. His voice waivers a little as he speaks, the nervousness intertwining with his breath before he lets go of her hand altogether.

"I've been reinstated into the list of New Orleans' most eligible bachelors again," he says quietly and a gaggle of emotions flow within her entire being. The thought of Christine being out of the picture makes her feel incredibly too happy.

"Wait, what?" Is all Emma says, however, the shock of hearing that he's single now washing over her like a bucket of cold water.

"I broke up with Christine," he says again, a little more confidently than before.

"Wait, what?" Emma asks again, the beat of her heart a cacophony against her eardrum.

"Well, actually she broke up with me." Killian clarifies, his voice flat as he once again reaches to scratch the side of his ear.

"Wait, are you serious? What happened? Are you okay?" Emma asks anxiously, sitting up and away from him in order to look at him clearly.

"I'm more than fine, Swan," he says, the way he chuckles dry and almost relieved. He motions for Emma to come back and lay against him again but she shakes her head and he shrugs. "Can't say I didn't expect it, things had been going south for quite a while."

"Why didn't you tell me anything? And how are you being so nonchalant about this?"

"Didn't want to trouble you, I suppose," he responds as his arm reaches over towards her, his fingers tugging her shirt towards him, back to his embrace once she shivers again. "That and because I'm hardly heartbroken about the matter."

This time, Emma acquiesces and she falls silently against his chest, warmth spreading around her body again and jealousy stirring at the pit of her stomach as she thinks about the fact that she's the only one that's left in an unhappy relationship.

"But you're not happy, Emma," he murmurs against her hair, his statement matter-of-fact with no question behind it.

"That is the understatement of the year," she scoffs, hoping against hope that Killian doesn't take them down the road she knows he's about to.

"Why haven't you done anything about it?" he asks.

"I've tried to," Emma answers defensively, her arms wrapping tighter around her torso. "It's just...complicated."

"Only because you're making it complicated," he replies, frustrated.

"Killian," she warns.

"You are, though!" Killian retorts exasperatedly, and this time he's the one that pulls away from her in order to look her straight in the eyes when he talks to her. "Graham is a right ponce and I cannot for the life of me understand why you're still with someone who makes you so unhappy."

"It's not that simple," she deflects. "I don't want to hurt him."

"No, you just don't want to admit that you were wrong about him," he snaps at her in the only way one does when you're trying to convince your friend to see reason and they're being stubborn. Emma makes a disgruntled noise, a mix between an exasperated groan and an angry snarl as she stands up and moves away from him.

This is why they'll never work. They're both stubborn and their fiery temperaments are too much alike. He's an arrogant asshole ninety-nine percent of the time and she's a prickly broken lost girl who'll push anyone away the minute they get too close.

She hates being wrong. She's already beat herself up about being wrong about Graham and the whole reason she's been stalling breakup was because she was too proud to admit that once again, she had fucked up. But it's one thing to accept that you've messed up on your own, it's quite another to have a third party push you to accept it.

Right now, Killian felt like he was pushing her.

"Fine, I was wrong. Is that what you want to hear?" Emma tells him, her voice quivering from either anger or frustration, she wasn't sure. "You wanted me to own up to my mistakes? Then here it goes: I was wrong. I was wrong to believe that Graham would be different. I was wrong to believe that I could be in a functional relationship, that I could be enough for somebody," she says, tears nowhere near her face but her voice wavering as if she were on the verge of sobbing. "There, are you happy?"

"Of course I'm not happy, Emma!" He stands and walks towards her, his arms quickly wrapping themselves around her. She's surprised that she lets him comfort her at all. "That's not what I meant at all!" He murmurs against her temple, still hugging her fiercely against himself. "It isn't your fault, none of this is your fault. He's the prick, he's controlling and abusive."

"I don't know why I thought this time would be different. All the guys I've been with are losers, my parents didn't even want me. Nobody does."

Killian pulls away from her then, just enough to put some distance between them so he can look down at her. His brows are knitted, his jaw clenched, and his blue eyes are steely with determination.

"Don't you dare say that again, Swan," he says quietly. It's not a reprimand, but a pleading. "You are loved. Your friends love you. David and your grandparents, you're everything to them," he continues vehemently as his fingers thread against . "Don't let one controlling arse or lousy parents make you feel like you aren't worthy of love. You are kind, smart, incredibly beautiful inside and out. Screw everyone who doesn't recognize that."

His words make Emma's heart beats erratically against her chest. Nobody had ever said anything remotely similar to what Killian just had. She reasons that he must know what it feels like to need to convince someone of their worth, he must have done it a million times with his ex-girlfriend before she ultimately decided to end her life. Emma's not there, she's not at the end of her rope, she's not suicidal, but she does feel broken, unwanted, unloved. She's felt that way for decades.

"You're my friend, you're supposed to say that," she offers self-deprecatingly, pulling away from him and leaning against the oak tree, ever unable to accept a compliment and especially not from the guy she likes far more than just platonically.

"When have I ever lied to you?" he asks her ruefully. Emma shrugs in lieu of a response, because he hadn't ever lied to her, not really. Killian sighs and brings up his hand to lift his glasses while the other lifts to pinch the bridge of his nose.

"Do you want to know why Christine really dumped me?" he asks her plainly but tensely.

Emma nods, unable to form any word of assent, but desperate to know why. Killian sighs again, seemingly trying to find the courage to tell her what he wants to say.

"She said she couldn't be in a relationship with someone who was hopelessly pining for someone else," he offers in a rush, blue eyes blown wide with anxiety – blue eyes fearing, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"Killian," Emma starts slowly. He can't possibly be saying what she's imagining. He can't possibly be telling her that she was the reason Christine broke up with him. "What are you saying?"

"Bloody hell, woman. Do I have to spell it out for you?" He groans, frustrated as he runs his hands through his hair. He struggles with his words for a moment — a first in the amount of time Emma has known him — before he resolves to suck it up and says, "I like you."

An undeniable swoop flits about Emma's stomach instantly. God knows how long she's waited, wanted to hear those words come out from his lips; weeks of denying the instant attraction she felt towards him, and trying to live with ignoring the undeniable tension they shared.

"You like me?" she can't help but tease him, "Do you want to argue again that you're not a grade-schooler?"

"You're killing me, Emma." Killian groans before he chuckles in disbelief, his hands rubbing against his face trying to wipe out the embarrassment before he speaks again. "It's not easy to pour your heart out to someone as prickly as you," he's teasing her again and she grins, her eyes fluttering shut at the sensation of his hand cupping her cheek and his thumb brushing back and forth against her skin. "That being said, yes I like you. You are all I think about, you are all I care about and I can't keep my affections to myself any longer."

"Killian," she starts, eyes still closed as she leans her forehead against his and rubs her cheek onto the palm of his hand. I like you too, I want you too, she wants to say. "We can't," she says instead.

"I know," he smiles ruefully. "You're in History of New Orleans II."

They stay in silence for a moment, with Killian's hand warm on her face and his thumb gracing the chilled skin as he brushes it back and forth on her cheek. She closes her eyes and relishes in the feeling of such blatant affection. Of course he thinks that with Graham aside, the fact that Emma will be his student is their biggest obstacle. When in reality, it's the fact that Emma cannot fathom forcing him into anything with her. She cannot handle the mere notion that whatever he feels for her has a high probability of not being real, and she won't force his heart no matter how starved for affection she is. It's not fair to either of them, she'd be fooling herself and using him in the process.

"That being said, it's a ways till January," Killian says, tauntingly tapping the salacious smirk quickly curving his lips upward with his index finger. "I can think of ways to keep us occupied till then." He moves forward then, one hand braced on the oak tree behind her and the one that was cupping her cheek traveling south to curl around her neck.

"Please, you couldn't handle it," she deflects, rolling her eyes to appease the warning sirens that are going off in her head.

"Perhaps you are the one who couldn't handle it," he pops the 't' at the end of the sentence and pairs it with a raised eyebrow. He's challenging her and it takes about half a second before she makes up her mind and her hands grab him by the lapels, pulling him forward to crash his lips down against hers. He falters for a moment before he moves against her, but when he does—when he slips her upper lip between his, his teeth nipping at the flesh before he slides his tongue into her mouth—she can't help but let out a guttural moan, one that rattles from deep within her chest and makes him push her further back against the tree.

It's all months of pent-up wet heat and they're both giving as good as they're getting with bright white lights shining on her eyelids as they continue to kiss. She knows that it doesn't come from the twinkling lights that hang from the oak trees but she feels it pulsating from her chest, the spot where the orb had seeped through her skin thrumming rapidly alongside the beat of her heart and spreading warmth across her entire body. He deepens the kiss, his hand threading deeper in the waves of golden hair that cascade past her shoulders. She tries to ignore the fact that the brush of his lips against hers feels so familiar, but she can't deny that kissing him almost feels like a breath of life. Memories taper in and out of her mind as the kiss goes on — she's in a patio, her back pressed to a brick wall as a party rages inside a house and Killian's lips were moving against her in the same they move against hers now. She's in a cabin of a ship and the floor sways beneath her feet as the river currents slosh rapidly against the steel vessel, and the feel of Killian's fingernails scratching lightly at the base of her scalp is a sensation identical to the press of his fingers now. It's good, it's amazing, it's fucking fantastic and she doesn't want to stop kissing him but it's getting harder to ignore the warning sirens, the fear that undeniably creeps up the soles of her feet and around her heart as the shadows that want to stop her from remembering try to snuff out the light.

Killian's lips follow hers as she pulls away from him. He gives an incredulous chuckle between the panting that mirrors her own, his warm breath comes out in white puffs between them, and tickles her chin. Emma wants nothing more than to give in again, than to sink into another embrace and drown in another kiss. His grip tightens at the base of her neck, and her skin erupts in goose bumps when his thumb caresses the underside of her chin, tilting it up before continuing the trail and brushing his thumb on her swollen lips. She meets his eyes then, and she is taken aback by not seeing the lust she expected reflected in the blue irises. Instead she sees affection, an overflowing amount of fondness in his gaze that makes her place her hands on his chest and push him away.

None of this was real.

"That was—"

"A one-time thing," she says gruffly as she steps away from him, her voice still riddled with longing.

"Emma," he starts as he reaches towards her, managing to grab hold of her hand and intertwining their fingers together instantly. Emma turns to look at him and he doesn't say anything else, he simply squeezes her hand a little tighter and looks at her pleadingly. And it's that pleading gaze that makes her pull her hand out of his grip and step further away from him.

"Don't follow me," she tells him, her shoulders tense as she averts her eyes from him and walks towards the conservatory.

"Just wait five minutes…please," she pleads when he makes to object.

"As you wish," he replies dejectedly.

God, what was she thinking? Well, she wasn't that was the problem. Every time she's in his presence it's as if her entire mind, body, and soul go on autopilot. Which, if she's taking in the fact that she was ensured to meet him, predisposed to like him, and fated to fall in love with him, the notion that her entire being acts on it's own whenever she's with him makes total sense.

See, this is why she's a loner, because none of the relationships she's had, is currently in, or will maybe embark on have been normal, loving, relationships. Is it too much to ask that she could've just swiped right on Killian's Tinder profile, matched with him, gone on a handful of dates that eventually led them to fall for each other? Was it too much for her to want a normal fucking twenty-first century relationship at the age of twenty-two? Apparently it was, because here she is trapped in a forced, fated relationship because her great-great aunt had the inability to fucking move the fuck on from the guy she fell for at the very mature age of seventeen.

Also, and then what? Was she just supposed to live happily ever after with Killian? She was supposed to not only awake her own soul but she was supposed to awake his. Did Ursula just assume that Killian would be apparently super chill with the idea that he basically had no choice in being with her, that they were destined to be together? Sure, in the abstract it's incredibly romantic but in real life it's a pain in the ass.

At this point, though, Emma is only certain of one thing: she has to break up with Graham.

Tonight.

*********

Emma is tense the whole ride towards Graham's apartment, shivering while she grips the steering wheel of the bug, her knuckles white as the chilly December air seeps through the old car. She's never done this before—she's never been the dumper, always been the dumpee. When she had been with Neal he had simply left her for another girl, and none of the dalliances she had during undergrad had been significant enough to be considered a relationship. She had either been left out in the cold or the hookups had simply fizzled out and never amounted to anything more than that, but she never actually had to drop by someone's apartment and break things off.

It makes her palms sweat with anticipation, and she wishes that she could leave things with Graham in a good place, something complacent with no hard feelings but she knows that that won't be the case at hand. No, as much as she wants this to be a clean break, she fully expects it to be messy. He's in love with her, he's told her repeatedly. And she tried, she had really tried to give him a shot, give them a shot but at the end her attraction had tapered out as soon and as impulsively as she had dived into this mess.

And let's not mention the fact that she had just kissed Killian while she was still technically Graham's girlfriend. She says "technically" because they hadn't been acting like boyfriend and girlfriend in weeks and to be completely honest, if Killian hadn't pulled back and given her a minute moment of clarity, Emma would have kept going through with it, taken a stronger hold on the lapels of his black pea coat and continued on kissing the fuck out of him.

She has to break up with Graham because there's no denying her feelings for Killian. And though she's sure that she doesn't want to jump into anything with Killian any time soon, it's not fair for her to lead Graham on like this. He's fully expecting her to return his love one day, has been patiently waiting for a day that's never going to arrive. And if it were only that she has undeniable feelings for Killian that would be one thing, but it's not just that. Emma isn't going to land the entire fault on herself when Graham is also to blame for her attraction all but dissipating completely from the face of the earth.

He suffocates her. Being with him, something that was once as easy as breathing, has someone turned into a double-edged sword and has left her without any will to breathe. His constant messaging, his uncontrolled jealousy, showing up at places unannounced, and the constant fighting has her struggling for control, struggling for any semblance of her old life—longing for her freedom, and longing for the ability to make her own choices again. She needs someone who will let her thrive within the bounds of her own independence, not fight to regain control of her and tell her what to do. She needs someone who will respect her boundaries and not push her into situations where she's just not comfortable in, she needs someone who is perfectly fine to do his own thing while she does hers, and for there to be mutual support in that.

Graham doesn't give her that and it's driving her up a wall.

She has to break things off, if not for their mutual benefit, then just for her own sanity.

The ride back to Uptown is shorter than she wanted it to be, and she sighs as she parks her car in front of the slate grey house that houses three different apartments. His sits on the top floor, a medium sized one-bedroom that used to be half of the upstairs of the old house. She always loved how his bedroom window looked over a the patio of a Mexican restaurant on Freret called The Sugar Skull, the string lights that hung alongside the courtyard shining into his bedroom late at night. It was great for people watching, and she often found herself perched on the window, dressed in one of his many sweatshirts, looking over at the patrons. Tonight the restaurant is bustling with energy, clear and convincing evidence that the universities had finally let out their semesters for winter break, and weeks ago that would have been a welcoming sensation to her, but tonight it just fills her with dread.

She knows he's home because his car is parked out front and faint flickering TV light fans from underneath the front door. Emma shakes her head as she slips the key into the door—incidentally, the fact that she has a key was the source of a rather nasty fight last month, what with him fully expecting his own key to her apartment in exchange for his and her not willing to give him one—and steps into his apartment, her breath held in tight.

"Graham?" she calls out, her heeled boots clacking loudly against the hardwood floors. He doesn't respond, but she follows the light that falls out of his living room. Usually, she'd leave her purse on the kitchen counter, but tonight she keeps it with her. She doesn't intend to stay here long.

She finds him sitting on the couch, staring intently at the TV, a black and white Hitchcock film playing on the screen and half an empty bottle of Jameson resting against his thigh, his hand clutched tightly around the neck. It shouldn't irk her that this is how he undoubtedly spent the night, preferring to get drunk after his final rather than go to Celebration in the Oaks with her, but it does.

"Hey," she says again, now standing closer to the loveseat that rested perpendicular, about an inch or two away, to the couch. He nods at her, and it bothers her more than he won't even look at her.

"Can we talk?" she hears herself say, waiting on a bated breath for his reaction.

He turns his head towards her at the question, his narrowed eyes unfocused and bloodshot. She assumes that he notices how she shuffles her feet, how her hands are gripped tightly around the leather strap of her purse, how her eyes refuse to meet his, because when he talks his voice is tight.

"Sure," he says, almost as if he knows what's coming next.

Emma takes a big breath before sitting on the loveseat, her legs threatening to give out.

"Are you going to talk or not?" he snaps, taking another swig of Jameson as she opens her mouth but her words fail her. She doesn't even know how to begin, should she soften the blow or just rip this off like a Band-Aid?

"This isn't working out for me," she says, her voice coming out stronger than she thought it would.

Band-Aid it is, then.

He looks at her incredulously before letting out a scoff, rolling his bloodshot eyes and grabbing the neck of the bottle so tight that his knuckles are a stark white.

"And here I thought you were finally about to be honest with me, Emma," he says, his voice coming out eerily calm, clearly holding in the weakly attenuated storm that raged and gained momentum in his emotions. She has been through many a hurricane to know that she was currently in the eye of the storm, winds of anger and destruction swirling around her but not yet touching her, harming her.

"What are you talking about?" she asks him again, gathering her purse closer to her body and standing up, moving away from him.

"You think I'm an eejit don't you?" he snarls, his Irish accent coming out full force at her, before chugging another good bit of the Jameson. "You think I don't know you've been fucking him?" He stands up.

"Fucking who?" She asks him, genuinely confused until she sees him lower his gaze to the necklace Killian had given her for her birthday. "Killian? Graham, we're just friends!"

"Oh, aye! And I'm the bleeding queen of England!" he yells, eyes wild and brandishing the green bottle, alcohol sloshing angrily inside the glass, as he steps closer to her. "You spend every waking moment with him, Emma!"

"We are studying," she retorts, crossing her arms on her chest and inching away from him. "I have finals too you know."

"Why him though?" He asks, his voice breaking not from pain, but from unadulterated anger. "What does he have that I don't?"

"Look, Graham, I came here to end things, okay?" Emma says calmly, trying to keep the edge out of her voice so as to not anger him further. "Not because of Killian, but because I'm not right for you and you're not right for me," she tells him, her palm pressed gently, soothingly, against his chest and her honesty making her feel both raw and as if the entire weight of the world has been lifted from her shoulders. Sure she had kissed Killian less than an hour ago, and sure she had more than just liked it but this breakup had been a long time coming whether Killian had kissed her or not.

"You think you're going to find somebody else?" Graham rasps, wrapping his hand around hers and tugging her forward so quick that she loses her balance and falls into his so-called embrace, his grasp on her upper arm rough as she feels thumb and fingers digging painfully into the flesh of her arm. He stares at her, eyes blazing in disdain, and when he speaks his voice drops to a pitying tone.

"Who could want you, Emma?" he asks, and it feels like he's stabbed her in the heart for a moment until anger finally flares up in her being. True, she didn't expect to escape this situation unscathed, but she never thought he'd stoop so low as to play into the insecurities she had confided in him weeks ago.

"Oh, fuck you, Graham!" she curses at him, tugging away from his grasp.

"Poor little rich girl, Emma Swan!" He whines mockingly before shoving her against the wall, pinning his arms around her and blocking her escape. "Who could want someone so broken, so flighty, so incredibly cold?"

"Stop it," Emma pleads softly, terror and pain clawing at her throat. She can feel the shadows swirl around her, the despair they make her feel dwarfing her courage. "Please, just stop."

"Why not me, Emma?" He asks maniacally, leaning into her and dragging her chin to face him when she tries to look away. "Tell me! Tell me why you've chosen him and not me!"

"I haven't chosen either of you!" She protests, her voice hoarse and her vision blurring with unshed tears, fear crippling her. "I just don't want to do this anymore!"

"Do what? This relationship? I've done nothing but worship you, Emma and here you are throwing this all away, for what? Why? Give me one good reason!"

"Because you suffocate me!" she exclaims, her shoulders sagging. This isn't how it's supposed to go, she wanted just to say her piece and leave, close this chapter of her life. End of story.

"Oh, I suffocate you?" he asks incredulously, his tone quickly turning back into accusatory.

"If memory serves me right you rather liked to be choked," he leers against her ear.

"You're disgusting," she tells him angrily, her jaw locking in place and eyes furious.

"Admit that you've been with him and I'll let you go," he tells her, eyes nearly black, glinting madly.

"Let me go?" she echoes, her voice drenched in anger and disbelief. "I'm leaving whether you like it or not. And I don't have to admit anything because there's nothing to admit."

Emma shoves him away from her, walking purposefully towards the entrance and away from him. She had said her piece and as far as she was concerned that would have to suffice. She didn't want to be with him anymore and whether or not he would accept that was up to him, she didn't have to stay back and convince him that they were over. She can feel him hot on her heels, his labored, angered breath tinged with a rancid taste of Irish whiskey and she's almost at the door when she feels his hand coil tightly around her upper arm and yank her forcefully backwards and flush against the wall between the kitchen counter and the living room.

Her first instinct is to kick him in the groin, but he anticipates that and wedges his knee in between her legs, her body recoiling at the movement that once had brought her immense pleasure.

"You are lying," he snarls against her ear, his breath hot and sticky against her skin, the smell of alcohol so pungent it almost makes her gag.

"I am not," she retaliates, her attempts to push herself up and against him futile under the dead weight that his torso places against hers.

"I know you slept with him, Emma," he says again, this time trailing his lips against her cheek, the wet press of his open mouthed kisses against her skin making her recoil even further in disgust. "I read through your messages, I know that you had to share a room at the inn, that you had to share a bed with him."

"You have it all wrong," Emma wheezes, her voice pleading and nearing desperate as she struggles against his touch, shivering as his mouth starts suckling on her neck and his hand roughly tugging on her breast, his touch unrelenting and thoroughly unwelcome.

"Say you want me, Emma," he continues trailing his mouth along her jaw and against her lips, ignoring her resistance, "No one else will ever love you like I do."

"I don't want you," she says roughly after biting down on his lower lip, granting her relief for all but the ten seconds as he regains his composure. She's too focused on the rabid anger behind his eyes to notice his hand raise and swing forward until it smacks her hard against her cheek. Her head lulls sideways, the force of his blow making her body protest in agony immediately.

"I will make you want me," he counters, his forearm pressing horizontally onto her neck, her windpipes protesting. It isn't until he keeps pressing down against her, restricting her windpipes, telling her that he'd actually show her what suffocating really feels like, that the thought that she may not make it out of this apartment alive crosses her mind. She wishes she had let Mary Margaret accompany her like the brunette had pleaded at City Park, not wanting Emma to face Graham alone –

"I'll stay in the car and come get you if it feels like you've been in there too long," she had bargained, her green eyes wide with worry and her hand gripping Emma's pleadingly.

"It'll be fine, Mags," Emma had reassured her.

–"How did he touch you?" Graham's leering, slurred voice breaks into her memories. "How did he make you want him more than me?"

"He didn't," Emma responds, still struggling against him, trying to push him off of her but he just presses back tighter.

Fear starts to paralyze her as she feels his hand travel down her stomach, skimming the short hem of her skirt, underneath it and pressing up against her tights. He teases the length of her thighs, a movement that two months ago would have aroused her but that tonight makes bile make its way up her trachea and threaten to spew out of her mouth. She needs to find something to hit him with, something to get him off of her before the takes it any further.

Graham's fingers tear at the front of her tights, and she hears the familiar sound of nylon ripping at the seams, before she feels his clammy fingers treat her underwear in the same way, tearing away fabric in order to get to where he wants to be and where she has no desire have him. Emma's eyes nearly bug out of their sockets when she feels his digits press into her dry folds, her muscles contracting defensively, denying him entry. Suddenly she sees the glint of the green Jameson bottle on the kitchen counter, and without thinking twice she outstretches her arm, her fingers barely grazing the bottle as he keeps his futile attempt at arousing her, and swings it back towards his head, green glass colliding with wavy brown hair with so much force that the bottle shatters and he topples to the ground unconscious.

Emma's knees give in beneath her and she falls to the floor, shaking. Her hand trembles as she outstretches her arm towards Graham's unconscious form, breathing a twisted sort of relief once she presses her fingers to his throat and finds that his pulse still beats steadily. She doesn't know what to do other than to count her blessings and get the hell out of his apartment. Bounding down the staircase, taking the steps two at a time, she makes her way back to the bug completely intending to lock her doors as she waits for the ancient Volkswagen to warm up, but she stops dead in her tracks. There, resting against the hood of her car was no other than Facilier.

The lights in the street flicker out one by one, until the sole streetlamp that hung above where she parked placed a spotlight on the witch doctor. He wore a purple velvet coat, a skull pinned to the white cravat he had wrapped around his neck and tucked into a burgundy dress shirt. Emma could barely see his purple eyes, the brim of his hat casting a shadow on his face.

"Oh, Emmeline," he says, his voice chastising. "Quite resourceful aren't you, chére?"

"What are you doing here?" she spits out, her voice ragged as her windpipes still struggle to inhale and exhale normally.

"I think you know the answer to that question," Facilier responds, the shrug he gives her making her feel a sudden rush of anger.

"This was you, wasn't it?" Emma asks as a formality, she has no doubt that he was behind it. "You're the reason Graham lashed out like that."

"Au contraire chére," he offers sardonically, gasping theatrically as if she's wounded his reputation with such a deplorable assumption. "You speak as if I can make people act against their own free will. I assure you that I cannot." he tells her. "All I can do is offer the proper words of encouragement, and that boy had all those feelings buried deep inside of him, and he would've lashed out sooner or later. I just needed it to be sooner rather than later."

The grin Facilier gives her is wicked and downright impish, giving no indication that assuming that he thoroughly enjoyed what just transpired was a mistake. Emma lunges at him, using up what's left of her adrenaline to try and tackle the asshole to the ground and give him a proper left hook to the chin.

"He was about to kill me!" she snarls as she lunges forward. Though instead of tackling the man, she had gone straight through him almost as if he wasn't even there. A freezing chill ran down her entire body as she did so, and it was a miracle she managed to stop herself just in time by bracing her hands against the hood of her car.

"You're ensuring your own death all by yourself. I just figured he could help speed the process along," Facilier continued as if her failed attack hadn't even happened.

"So what? So you could have my soul faster?" Emma snaps at him.

"Smarter than you look, Miss Swan." Facilier offers condescendingly as his shadows circle her like vultures sizing up their dying prey. "My friends on the other side are hardly patient, but they've been waiting a long time for you. I guess you could say they're getting antsy."

"That's not fair! You're not even giving me a chance to try!"

"Because you've been so adamant in trying to meet the terms of your deal," Facilier responds sarcastically with a roll of his violet eyes. "I told you we were playing by my rules, Emmeline, and I never play fair."

"What do you want from me?" Emma asks, her voice breaking as she feels herself get desperate. All she wants to do is leave this hellhole, leave Graham and Facilier behind.

She just wants this to end. She wants to be a normal college senior, whose only worry is graduating on time and figuring out what the hell she's going to do after school ends.

Is that really too much to ask?

"It's not what I want, it's what they want and they want payment for the deal you struck," Facilier tells her matter-of-factly.

"Payment without letting me even try to meet the terms of the deal?" Emma asks, her voice riddled with disbelief. They're not even going to let her try? How the hell is that even fair?

"Think of it as interest," Facilier shrugs and Emma feels the urge to barrel through him again.

"You're despicable," she spits out.

"I'm a businessman, not a philanthropist, Emmeline," he offers nonchalantly. To him, Emma was just another number, another soul that needed to be recollected.

"But I guess that fair is fair, and from the looks of tonight you may be well on your way to coming up with your end of the bargain," he grins widely, his open mouth showing a row of yellowing teeth, a thin gap separating his two front teeth. "Perhaps someone could love poor little rich girl Emma Swan but can you lie to save your life and live with yourself?" he taunts her.

"Shut up," Emma says scathingly.

"What is it that he said?" Facilier asks her, keeping up with his mocking tone. "Ah yes," he mumbles taking out a small notebook from his breast pocket before he starts reading out from it. "You are kind, smart, incredibly beautiful inside and out. Screw everyone who doesn't recognize that. Precious, really," Facilier laughs at her. "He sounds like a keeper, Emmeline."

"You leave him alone!" Emma practically snarls. "I made the deal, I deal with the consequences but he stays out of it. You don't want him, you want me."

"Oh I do enjoy this fire inside of you, Emmeline." Facilier offers gleefully, almost as if he was gaining some level of sadistic pleasure from torturing her further, but the second that Emma was about to retaliate, he vanishes in a cloud of purple smoke, his laughter echoing in the dark street.

She wastes no time in jumping into her car and turning on the ignition. The faster she gets out of here, the faster she can forget about Facilier and Graham.

The thought of Graham sends a deep ache through her chest. Emma was so eager to blame Facilier for Graham's actions but she can't deny that the flags were there. Her thumb hovers over her phone, debating on whom she should call. She knows that if she calls David, he'll want to press charges, if she calls Killian he'll beat Graham into a pulp and let his anger get the best of him.

"Mags," she her voice trembles at the sound of her friend's voice.

"Emma? What's wrong?" Mary Margaret asks alarmed.

"Where are you?" Emma asks her, mentally willing the car to warm up faster, she needs to get out of her before Graham wakes up and tries to assault her again.

"At Dave's by myself," she hears Mary Margaret reply, her friend's voice trembling with worry. "Emma what happened?" Mary Margaret asks, her voice full of concern and just as she's about to answer her she sees Graham's form bounding down the stairs towards her.

"Emma!" he calls out angrily once he stands outside the bug, his fists pounding on the glass of her windows, the 1965 beetle still warming up. "Open the door, Emma!"

"Mags, I'll see you there okay?" Emma says hastily before hanging up the phone and shifting her gears into reverse and pulling out onto the street, cold engine be damned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any thoughts? Comments? Complaints? (hopefully no complaints other than how long it took me to update)
> 
> Also, just as a disclaimer I guess...I love Graham as a character, always have and always will. When I started writing this story I didn't know this it where I would end up with him but I saw no other way around it. Don't hate me?


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